I Have Known the Eyes
by phoenixrising934
Summary: Draco Malfoy and his least favorite Gryffindors find themselves trapped in the future, where there's a new, growing threat in the Wizarding World: A mysterious "Wizards' Rights" group called the New Order, which is set on taking down the Potter and Granger run Ministry. Will they be able to escape this nightmarish universe, and if they do, will anything ever be the same? Dramione.
1. Plans

**Summary: **Set during HBP. Harry is growing additionally more suspicious of Malfoy's behavior, and he enlists Hermione, Ginny, and Ron to help him get to the bottom of the mystery. After an inexplicable event in the Room of Requirement, however, the Hogwarts students find themselves trapped in an alternate universe, one they eventually determine to be the future. _Their_ future. Left to their own devices in a world in which everything has changed - Death Eaters rising again, a Granger and Potter-led Ministry, and a mysterious new group called the New Order - will they ever find an escape? And more importantly, once they do, will anything ever be the same? (Dramione, Hinny).

**a/n: **Hiiiii I'm so glad you're here! Just so you know, I'm not J.K. Rowling, which means I own nothing but the plot. I don't even own the title - it comes from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. Aaaaand, you should know that this story will contain mature language and themes, and I may have to up the rating later. Okay, so with all of that said, here we go...

* * *

**I HAVE KNOWN THE EYES**

**I**

"Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides,

Who covers faults at last with shame derides."

**—_King Lear_**

_October 4, 1996, 8:12 A.M._

Hermione learned in grade school that stories that begin in autumn nearly always indicate a prior tragedy. At the time, she imagined it was simply her teacher's rationalization for spoiling the ending of _The Great Gatsby _when they'd only just begun reading it (why they were reading such a book in primary school, she didn't know), but now, she could see it - the chaos in the way the leaves swirled to the ground, leaving black, skeletal branches; the way the wind never seemed to blow in one direction; the way the cycle of the moon seemed to split open wide, allowing the celestial body to sway out of its practised cycle.

Shakespeare, too, taught her of the power nature holds in determining - or at least helping us to determine - our destiny. If Julius Caesar had opened his eyes to the omens provided by lightning that lit the Roman sky and thunder that shook the streets, he probably wouldn't have been stabbed.

Or maybe he still would have, but it wouldn't have been thirty-three bloody times.

"Et tu, Brute?" she muttered to herself, raising a brow as Ron took the cinnamon bun she'd already reached out a hand to grab.

"I just know he's planning something. Something bad."

Hermione jumped, her musings broken as Harry spoke. "Malfoy again?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Malfoy was, after all, the Cassius to Harry's Caesar.

"He's been on about the bloody ferret this entire week," moaned Ron, shovelling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth as he spoke. Hermione winced as pieces escaped through his lips.

"On the contrary, Ronald, he hasn't stopped talking about Malfoy since we saw him at Borgin &amp; Burkes in August," she said, eyeing Harry warily. It was currently the beginning of October, and his fixation on Malfoy was seriously worrying her. Perhaps his theory that Malfoy was up to something had merit, but then again, when _wasn't _Malfoy up to something? In Harry's mind, Malfoy had become less of a nuisance and more of a disease — tainting every thought with dark hunches, erasing any notion of coincidence, and transforming the most insignificant of actions into ones of deep meaning. As if Harry's personal vendetta and endless stream of conspiracies regarding Malfoy weren't bad enough already, he was now attempting to infect Ron with the Slytherin sickness, and Ron, as Hermione well knew, had a weak immune system when it came to the ferret.

"The _he _you speak of is right here," said Harry, his expression irritated. "And I'm telling you, there's something suspicious going on with Malfoy. I think he may have—"

"Honestly, enough with the theories! Or anything else about Malfoy for that matter," said Hermione, taking a bite out of a piece of bread smothered in raspberry jam. "If I wanted to discuss a topic that gave me trouble digesting, I would suggest Dean and Ginny's inability to stop snogging for longer than five minutes."

Both Harry and Ron squirmed in discomfort as Hermione continued chewing, her expression innocuous.

"Are you trying to make _me _lose my appetite?" asked Ron. His blue eyes widened, and his mouth twisted into a grimace. He wasn't speaking to Dean, and his familial love for Ginny had been overshadowed by the horror and disgust of seeing her copping off with one of his mates.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you _could_ lose your appetite," said Hermione, smiling to let him know she was teasing. Stressed about Quidditch, Ron was more sensitive than usual, and any joke made at his expense had to be carefully constructed and considered.

"She has a point, mate," Harry said, chuckling lightly at Ron's expense.

"Well, I s'pose she does." Ron looked somewhat sheepish, but the comment didn't prevent him from resuming the demolition of his breakfast. He finished his potatoes and moved on to eggs, and in that moment, Hermione was quite grateful she wasn't sitting next to him. Chunks of scrambled eggs began flying in every direction, most of them landing on the wooden table. Seamus Finnegan, however, was unlucky enough to receive flecks of sunny-colored dandruff from his place on Ron's right.

"It's just that," Harry began, visibly struggling to avoid bringing the Slytherin up again. He ran a hand through his disheveled dark hair, causing it to stick up even more than usual, and sighed deeply.

Hermione narrowed her eyes but said nothing; Ron simply shrugged as if to give Harry the go-ahead.

"I think he's taken the Mark," Harry whispered, glancing surreptitiously around the table in order to ensure that no one had overheard his theory.

"What?" exclaimed Hermione. Yes, Malfoy was an insufferable prat, but a Death Eater? She didn't see how it was plausible, considering the extent of the previous year's catastrophe in the Department of Mysteries. Lucius had been captured and was presently rotting in Azkaban. She'd presumed that in the absence of his father, the younger Malfoy stood a chance, not at redemption, but perhaps at improvement. Without his overbearing father around, he could claw his way out of the depths of depravity, a pit of cruelty and contempt his father seemed to have worked tirelessly to shove him into. And because Hermione was admittedly idealistic at heart, even when it came to those she couldn't stand, Malfoy being a Death Eater was not something she wanted to consider. "Harry, you can't be—"

"—Serious? I am, Hermione, and I really think that's what's going on. The conversation from the train, the way he's been acting; it all points to it!" Harry threw up his hands for added emphasis, and Hermione's orange juice nearly toppled over.

"Harry," she sighed, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Just try and give this Malfoy thing a rest for a while, alright?"

"Don't you think I've been bloody trying?" asked Harry, exasperation in his tone. "It's just that Malfoy—"

"Gossiping about me again, are you Potter?" a snide voice cut in. "I understand why all of you Gryffindors are obsessed with me, but it's becoming a bit unhealthy, don't you think?"

The trio of Gryffindors looked up to see the disdainful blond in question eyeing them with cold malice and the slightest hint of amusement.

"Yes, well, we heard a rumour you and Parkinson are back together," said Hermione, her voice frigid. "I would say congratulations, but it's not as if she's a catch."

It was true; she _had _heard Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil discussing Malfoy's relationship status the night before as she dressed for bed. It was with mournful sighs and longing looks that the other girls determined that Malfoy was once again with Parkinson. Parvati acted particularly distraught, and Hermione nearly let out a laugh imagining the girl scratching "Mrs Parvati Malfoy" into her diary with a quill.

Which wasn't to say Lavender had lost her title as Gryffindor's resident trollop.

The way she'd drooled over Parvati's detailed description of Malfoy's newest luxurious robes was more than enough to squash any arguments to the contrary. The tittering over the Slytherin's "gorgeous body," "silky hair," and "mountains of money" had lasted so long, Hermione had been forced to cast a silencing charm around her bed (though not before she heard Lavender say "too bad his family's so undesirable." At this, she could not stifle her laugh).

"You're one to talk, Granger," said Malfoy, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and sneering at the brunette witch in a way that could make poor Neville wet his trousers. He fixed his silver gaze on her and appeared to infuse all the scorn he could into the glare. "You can't even get a moron like Weaselbee to notice you and your pathetic infatuation."

"What did you call me?" Ron asked distractedly, still chewing his eggs as Hermione's cheeks burned.

"Disgusting," Malfoy hissed, upon seeing Ron's lack of table manners. Hermione thought it was most likely the only thing she and Malfoy would ever agree on. "I've always known you Weasleys to be uncivilized, but this—"

"Malfoy, would you just leave already?" said Hermione. For one thing, she was not in the mood to fight with Malfoy; it was exhausting to keep up the argument. For another, she was seriously concerned that Harry was going to yank Malfoy's shirt sleeve up to his elbow in order to inspect the skin underneath it. He appeared to be salivating at the mere idea of determining whether or not a Dark Mark had indeed marred its surface.

"Now why would I do that, Granger, when the fun's just starting?" he asked, smirking derisively.

Before Hermione could respond, a familiar, nasally voice broke into the conversation.

"Drake! Come on, you promised we could take a walk outside," said Pansy Parkinson, shooting him a saccharine simper and looping an arm through his. "This filth isn't worth our time or our clever insults," she concluded with a sniff.

Hermione could have sworn she saw Malfoy roll his eyes at Pansy's words, but she was far from surprised. It was no secret that Malfoy had visited a number of different girls' beds at Hogwarts, discreetly of course, yet somehow rumours of his sordid, midnight trysts always seemed to get out. She often suspected that he spread them himself. Anyhow, she supposed that he was with Pansy simply for _that _kind of benefit; Hermione couldn't wrap her head around the idea of anyone wanting to date Pansy for her personality. Even so, she felt an unwonted pang of sympathy for the Slytherin witch. She couldn't begin to imagine harbouring affectionate feelings for Draco Malfoy, but she knew without having experienced it that it could not be an easy or pleasant thing in the slightest, especially when he barely gave Pansy the time of day, let alone returned her sentiments.

"Must we, Pansy? I'm not feeling particularly well," said Malfoy, rubbing his chest and giving a theatrical cough for added effect. "I also distinctly remember telling you that I despise the nickname 'Drake'," he added under his breath.

"Are you getting sick?" Pansy asked, maintaining her iron grip on his arm whilst tugging him along and fretting over him as if he were a child. "I'll get one of the house elves to send up some soup and tuck you into bed, and then..."

Pansy's voice gradually faded away, and she and Malfoy departed, Pansy looking additionally distressed over Malfoy's health and Malfoy additionally _alarmed_ at the idea of Pansy playing nurse.

"Well that escape route certainly didn't work out for him," Hermione said, imagining the kind of torture Pansy would soon be inflicting on the blond.

"Serves him right," said Ron. "Pansy may be a cow, but it doesn't excuse Malfoy acting like a complete prick."

"Harry?" asked Hermione, concerned when Harry refrained from joining in on the Malfoy-bashing, ordinarily one of his favourite pastimes.

"Sorry, I was just..." Harry trailed off, his green eyes remaining unfocused. Hermione had a feeling she wouldn't like the direction his brain was going, but she was most likely powerless to change its course. Harry had developed a talent for getting her mixed up in things she had no business getting mixed up in.

"Just what?" she prompted, drumming her fingers impatiently on the table.

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," he said, looking to Ron and Hermione for support. "I'd like your help, but if you don't want to—"

"Are you kidding?" interrupted Ron, grinning. "A chance to wipe Malfoy's sodding smirk off his face? I'm in."

"What about you, Hermione?" Harry asked, after returning Ron's excited smile. Hermione realized she had absolutely no choice in the matter. While she couldn't bring herself to stamp out the light in Harry's eyes, further deciding her decision was the knowledge that Harry and Ron were bound to be reckless in their plans if she wasn't there to help.

That is, if they were even able to come up with a plan in the first place.

"Fine," she sighed. "I'm in too."

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

**_11 P.M._**

Very late that evening, Hermione, Harry, and Ron huddled around the Marauder's Map in the Gryffindor common room, attempting to locate the footsteps of a certain Slytherin.

"I know he's here somewhere," Hermione insisted. "It's his turn to patrol the corridors. Prefects can't slack on their duties!"

"Maybe not you," said Ron. "The rest of us..."

"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione jostled him with her elbow and applied her best disapproving stare.

"Come on, Hermione, it was a joke! Merlin, you look like my mum," he cried, and, well, she wasn't exactly disappointed by the comparison - at least Ron listened to his mum.

Hermione didn't like anyone skipping out on patrol; not only did it go against the tacit expectations of prefects, but also, it potentially placed people in danger. Prefects were on watch for a reason, after all, and after facing a troll, three-headed dog, and a basilisk, all in her first two years at Hogwarts, Hermione took the prefect position quite seriously.

"Well, if you stick to your job, I won't have any reason to imitate your mother again," she said, returning her eyes to the old, yellowed parchment on which the magic map was drawn. Its charmed capabilities never ceased to amaze her, despite her reservations about its uses - well, _Harry's _uses.

"Found him!" Harry exclaimed, pointing to a set of tiny feet labelled "Draco Malfoy."

"You did? Where?" Ron brought his face so close to the page that Hermione's vision was blocked entirely. She rolled her eyes at Ron's usual abandonment of observation skills.

"Sixth floor," answered Harry, "but he's on the move."

"Sixth floor?" Hermione said. "No, no, no, he's _supposed _to be on the _third _floor! Stupid git," she whined indignantly. "He's messing up my schedule! I worked on it for weeks!"

"Don't you get what this means, Hermione?" asked Harry, his expression triumphant. "Malfoy is sneaking off somewhere he's not supposed to!" Harry snatched his invisibility cloak from the chair on which it had been resting and swung it over his shoulders.

"He's on the seventh floor now," said Ron, still transfixed on the map. "Wait, no, he's...he's gone."

"How is he gone? That's not possible."

"Ron's right," said Hermione. "He just disappeared." She bit her lip, wondering how this new development was, in fact, possible. In all the years Harry had possessed the map, never once had he mentioned anyone simply vanishing.

"Crabbe and Goyle just reached the seventh floor," said Harry. "Let's see if they disappear too."

The three Gryffindors watched noiselessly for a few minutes, but Crabbe and Goyle hardly moved; the pair made a few steps here and there but did nothing to suggest they were planning on leaving the seventh floor in the near future.

"We have to go up there," Harry said firmly, keeping his eyes locked on the small footsteps drifting across the parchment as if he feared Crabbe and Goyle would soon pull a vanishing act like their blond leader. Harry's jaw was set, and Hermione realized arguing was futile. She wasn't prepared to fight a losing battle and could only do her best to make sure they weren't caught.

"Ron and I are prefects, so that will excuse us from getting in trouble if we're seen. You, on the other hand, better stay under that cloak. I don't care if Malfoy shows up with a Death Eater flanking either side of him. Do you hear me, Harry Potter?"

"I hear you, Hermione," Harry said, smiling slightly in spite of Hermione's admittedly bossy attitude.

"All right, then. Let's go before I change my mind."

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_11:19 P.M._

"What the—?"

"Shh," Hermione scolded, elbowing Ron in the side.

"Merlin, woman, why do you insist on hitting me all the time?"

"Because you never shut up!" she hissed, placing a finger on her lips to indicate a request for quiet. "And don't call me 'woman' ever again!"

They couldn't very well inspect what Crabbe and Goyle were doing if Ron immediately gave away their presence. She could only assume that Ron had been about to question the strange appearance of two little girls, probably first or second years, standing around the seventh corridor and looking a bit dazed. One held a stack of biscuits in her hands; the other was gripping her wand tightly. Hermione suddenly felt an invisible force pull her back and knew that Harry had something he needed to say. When they were safely behind a wall and out of sight of the girls, Harry took off the cloak and showed his friends the map.

"Look here," he said, reminding them of the location of Crabbe and Goyle's footprints.

"Yes, we get it, troll one and troll two are up here," said Ron as if it were obvious. "That's why we're out of bed and strolling along the seventh corridor."

"No, don't you see?" Harry shook his head. "They're in the exact spot—"

"—Where those little girls' footprints should be," gasped Hermione, her eyes widening in realization. "Those aren't girls! They're Crabbe and Goyle."

"Bloody hell," said Ron, scratching his head. "That's a disturbing thought. Crabbe and Goyle, wearing skirts." He gagged, and Hermione might have laughed had it not been for the increased speed with which her mind was racing.

"If Crabbe and Goyle are using polyjuice potion to guard the seventh floor, then Malfoy must be here somewhere," she said, more to herself than to Harry or Ron.

"But, Hermione, the map doesn't—"

"I know, Harry, the map doesn't lie," she said, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. She nibbled on her lower lip as she continued to think, attempting to come up with an explanation to satisfy the enigma that was Draco Malfoy at the moment. "Seventh floor, seventh floor...What's on the seventh floor?" She snapped her head up to look at her bewildered companions.

"Well, there's the Room of Requirement," Harry offered. "But I don't see how—"

"That's brilliant!" Hermione nearly shouted until she remembered to keep her voice down. Crabbe and Goyle weren't the most perceptive boys, but Hermione shied from taking any unnecessary risks. "The Room of Requirement is known as the place where everything is hidden, _and _it transforms itself to become the place you need it to be," she explained to Harry and Ron, who were dressed in countenances somewhere between trepidation and excitement. "So wouldn't it make sense for it to hide its occupants if that's what they need it to do?"

"Hermione, you're a genius!" Harry engulfed Hermione in a hug. "Now we just have to figure out _how _to get in."

"Malfoy and the other prats working for Umbridge weren't able to reach our DA meetings even though they knew about them," Ron said with a frown. "Only after Marietta ratted us out were they actually able to get in."

"But they got close, remember? The door would disappear on them. If we could just get there before Crabbe and Goyle and—"

"—Use the door before it disappears, we'd be in," concluded Harry. "But seeing as Malfoy's already in the room tonight, we won't get the chance."

"Tomorrow then?" asked Hermione.

"Tomorrow," said Harry with a nod.

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_October 6, 1996, 10:44 P.M._

As it happened, Malfoy didn't go to the seventh floor at all the next day, nor did he reach it the day after that. Hermione could tell Harry's impatience was swelling and about to burst, and try as she might to stop it, her patience was beginning to wane as well. Inquisitiveness was one of her dominant traits, and whatever Malfoy was doing in the Room of Requirement certainly stirred her ingrained curiosity.

While some still saw her intrusive nature as annoying, the majority of people no longer minded it; in fact, they had come to expect Hermione's myriad of questions and understood that she wasn't _trying _to be nosy. It was just her nature. And therefore in the two days of waiting for action, no one noticed that Hermione seemed to ask a lot of questions about Slytherins - Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in particular. Harry and Ron, however, could tell that the Malfoy mystery was eating away at her and eagerly soaked in any information she managed to gather, which, if she were being honest, was next to nothing.

"Bugger," Harry muttered on the third night of non-action on Malfoy's part. "Why isn't he doing anything? Why isn't he going back up there?"

Neither Hermione nor Ron had an answer for him.

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_October 8, 1996, 10:55 P.M._

On the fifth day, the Gryffindors finally got what they were waiting for. Malfoy was heading up the fifth corridor on his way to the Room of Requirement. Harry, Ron, and Hermione raced out of bed, Harry in the cloak and Hermione and Ron in their prefect robes.

By the time they reached the seventh floor, all three were panting, and Hermione knew she had sweat dripping down her brow. She and Ron decided to let Harry try to get in first, seeing as he was invisible and wouldn't alert Malfoy that anything was amiss. He cast a hurried "Muffliato" on his shoes and took off in a sprint as he spotted Malfoy heading for a door that had just emerged from the wall. Malfoy entered the room quickly after a nervous glance around the seemingly empty corridor, and though Harry attempted to run in right after him, the door disappeared with even greater speed than it had formed. Hermione listened as Harry's laboured breaths returned, and she braced herself for the inexorable rant that would follow the failed mission.

"No! I don't understand. I was right on his tail!" Harry said, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses and looking apoplectic with frustration. He attempted to stamp his foot, and Hermione had to choke back a laugh when it didn't make a sound.

"Not sure what to tell you, mate," Ron said, his expression sympathetic. "You're the one who turned it into the DA room for us last year. We don't know any more than you do."

He was right, of course, which frustrated Hermione to no end. There had to be a way to get in and discover what Malfoy was doing because otherwise, she was going to end up pulling out her frizzy hair and wailing like the mad banshee she was turning into. And, as usual, it would be all Malfoy's fault.

* * *

**a/n: **I promise the action will continue to grow with the story, especially after the time travel occurs. I'm really excited about it, and I hope you are too! I've only seen a couple of "traveling to the future" stories on FF, and none of them have been what I was looking for... which meant I had to write one myself ;) Special thanks to Beth (aka RainThestral93) for the beta!


	2. Fantasies

**II**

"**Lovers and madmen have such seething brains**

**Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend**

**More than cool reason ever comprehends."**

—**_A Midsummer Night's Dream_**

_October 9, 1996, 10:52 A.M._

"I don't know how much longer I can take this," complained Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione made their way to Potions, where Harry, much to Hermione's chagrin, had cemented his place at the top of the class. The other day, Professor Slughorn had been practically giddy after Harry's success in making a perfect fire protection potion. His eyes had lit up in glee when Harry had held his hand in the flame of a candle for three minutes without getting burned. It was completely due to that old potions book; Hermione's hair nearly crackled in electric irascibility whenever Harry and Ron praised it. It was _cheating_, and though Hermione had been forced to relax a bit about the rules over the years of friendship with Harry and Ron, this grated on her sense of probity in an entirely different way. The use of the book was inexcusable, especially since it had resulted in Harry receiving a precious vial of Felix Felicis. The molten gold liquid was known to be dangerous when one overindulged in its contents, but Hermione couldn't deny that she had desired the chance to experience the heightened confidence and sense of opportunity the potion provided.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Potty Potions and his pathetic posse."

"Malfoy," growled Harry in acknowledgement, placing a hand on his wand instinctively as they approached Slughorn's door.

"Nothing else to say? My, Potter, you're not going soft on me, are you?" asked Malfoy, raising his blond brows in question.

"Just not in the mood to deal with a pompous prat today, I suppose," said Harry, shoving past Malfoy and entering the Potions classroom as Hermione and Ron trailed behind him.

Just as the trio reached the centre of the room, Professor Slughorn raised the lid off a bubbling cauldron. Everyone collectively stepped closer, attempting to peer into its contents, and was soon hit with scents so appealing, the steps quickened and lengthened in less than a second.

"Whoa, there," Professor Slughorn said with a chuckle, cutting off the advancement of his students. "I don't want anyone getting too close. Now, can anyone tell me what type of potion this is?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air. She heard Malfoy snicker but ignored him, only raising it higher.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"That would be Amortentia, Professor," she said, her voice clear and crisp. "The most powerful love potion in the world. Recognizable by its pearl-like sheen and the distinctive shapes of its steam, Amortentia is known to smell differently to everyone based on what attracts them. For example," she continued, taking another step forward and inhaling the rising puffs of steam given off by the potion, "I smell...freshly mown grass, new parchment, and green...apples." She could already feel the potion beginning to cloud her thoughts and quickly cleared her throat, returning to her place beside Harry.

"Excellent work, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Slughorn, granting her an approving nod. "Now, as you probably know, it is impossible to manufacture love by use of a potion, so can anyone tell me how the recipient will feel about their newfound object of affection?"

Hermione's hand again flew up. No one else's did, and Slughorn indicated she could go ahead.

"Well, as you said, he or she won't truly love the other person, but a deep obsession or infatuation will occur, and this could be misinterpreted as love by the drinker of the potion," she said, glad she had made the effort to read ahead on what they would be covering in class.

"Correct! Another ten points to Gryffindor. Now," Slughorn said, rubbing his hands together in excitement. "Today, we'll be brewing the Draught of Living Death, which will, if done correctly, appear as misleadingly innocent as pure water..."

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_October 11, 1996, 9:06 P.M._

"How was Divination?" Hermione asked Harry and Ron, not particularly caring, but if it would help keep Harry's mind off Malfoy, it would be good for all of them.

"Well, other than Trelawney's mad as a box of frogs, not bad," said Ron, chewing one of Fred and George's trickster treats.

"What does that do, Ron?" Hermione asked cautiously, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. As humorous as the Weasley twins' antics could be, occasionally they caused Hermione more anxiety than amusement.

"What?" he asked, not understanding until she pointed at the other candies in his hand. "Oh, they make me an excellent opera singer when I feel like it." At Hermione and Harry's pointed silence, he babbled on. "I just eat them for the taste though. Obviously."

"I don't know, Ron," said Harry, smirking mischievously, "I seem to recall you serving up a lovely rendition of a Celestina Warbeck song the other night. 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,' was it?"

Ron's ears instantly turned tomato red, and Hermione and Harry burst out laughing.

"That was private!" Ron moaned, his freckles popping in the dimly lit corridor. "I thought no one was in there! It was the prefects' bathroom."

"What's the use in having an invisibility cloak if I don't take advantage of it every now and then?" asked Harry, residual laughter in his voice. "Hey, I wasn't trespassing — like you said when I found about being Quidditch captain, I can use the prefects' bathroom this year," he added, shrugging at Hermione's questioning glare. "Just wanted to catch Ron-stina in the act."

"How did I wind up with the two of you?" she asked good-naturedly, throwing her arms around Harry and Ron. "The opera singer and the invisible delinquent..."

"We saved you from a troll," answered Harry frankly, "and it all went downhill from there." Hermione laughed again, grateful to have best friends like Harry and Ron, even if they seemed to have a proclivity toward mischief.

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_October 13, 1996, 8:47 P.M._

"Maybe if we just walked around a bit and asked the room to turn into what it does for Malfoy," suggested Harry for perhaps the hundredth time.

"We've already tried that," sighed Hermione patiently, not appreciating the crazed look she was seeing in Harry's eyes. "A few times, actually." Their plan to figure out Malfoy's secret was going nowhere; he had returned to the room only once more, the previous night to be exact, and Harry had again failed to enter the Room of Requirement behind him. Since they had no idea what he used it for, the room did nothing when they paced back and forth outside of it, and wishing to see what Malfoy saw wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm going up there again."

"Mate, I know you're set on finding out what the slimy ferret is up to, but we've had no luck, and I don't see any point—"

"That's it!" exclaimed Harry, pumping a fist in the air. "I need _luck_!"

"Are you sure you want to use it on this?" asked Hermione, knowing what Harry was referring to as soon as he said it. The Felix Felicis was tucked away somewhere safe, she was sure, and she didn't know if this warranted removal from its haven.

"I only need a sip," argued Harry. "I'll save the rest of it." At Hermione's sceptical expression, Harry went on. "Look, Ron's right. Lady Luck has been shitting on us for nearly a fortnight, and it's not going to stop unless we do something about it. Taking the Felix Felicis is something, a _big _something."

"I...I can see your point," Hermione conceded hesitantly. "Just don't get your hopes too high, okay?"

"Sure, sure," said Harry, visibly ignoring Hermione's reservations as his wide grin began to match the insanity of his eyes. He raced up to his room, where the liquid gold, he later revealed, was residing in a charcoal sock.

"How do you feel?" asked Hermione as soon as Harry returned to the common room, a smug smile on his face. She tried not to infuse any bitterness into her voice, but _Merlin_ if that old potions book of his didn't make her mental.

"Brilliant. Fucking _brilliant_," he said confidently, grabbing his cloak and map. "I think I fancy a visit to the Divination Tower, actually. I just have this inexplicable need to head over there. Coming?"

"Wait the — Harry, why would you go to the Divination Tower? I thought we were going to the Room of Requirement," a nonplussed Hermione said, furrowing her brows.

"The man's got Felix on his side," said Ron as if it were explanation enough. He shrugged in amusement. "Now, personally I don't think we should doubt the master of luck, do you?"

"Whatever," muttered Hermione, picking up her pace to catch up with Harry.

When the trio reached the top of the Divination Tower, Harry knocked on the door without a second thought.

"Just — just a moment!" Professor Trelawney's dreamy voice floated through the door, and Hermione scowled when she realized she would have to endure the batty woman's presence as "Felix" did his work. She'd hoped that by dropping Divination third year, she would no longer have to endure the bizarre witch, but she'd managed to cross paths with her a few times in the ensuing years. "Ah, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger," she said, greeting each in turn. "What brings you to my door this evening?"

"Mind if we come in?" Harry asked, flashing a dazzling smile.

"Not at all, my dear. Come along, come along," she said, adjusting her thick glasses and opening the door wide enough for them to enter. She took a seat on a velvet settee and poured herself a drink, smiling in satisfaction after taking a sip. After a covert glance at the bottle, Hermione recognized that it was sherry, and, judging by the low level of alcohol left in the bottom, Professor Trelawney was not on her first glass of the night.

"Is that Amontillado?" Hermione asked, nodding toward the bottle. She remembered going to a vineyard with her parents years ago, and since she couldn't drink the wine at the various tastings they dragged her to, she instead focused on absorbing as much information as the vineyard owner could give on the types of wines.

"Why, yes," said Trelawney, her eyes languid and glassy as she turned to Hermione. "How did you know? You're not hiding it in the castle too, are you?" she laughed breathily before it turned into a sort of hiccuping noise.

"No," Hermione said slowly, put off by the professor's stranger than usual behaviour.

"Professors hide alcohol? Wicked," said Ron, relaxing into a chair and crossing his arms. "You're way cooler than I thought."

"Yes, well." Trelawney blushed, looking a bit flustered at Ron's compliment. She wrapped her arms around herself, her gauzy, lilac scarf overwhelming her spindly limbs. "It's technically against the rules, but I was walking through a corridor with an empty bottle in my bag, and very mysteriously, this room appeared—"

"On the seventh floor?" asked Harry, leaning forward eagerly. Hermione felt her heart accelerate as she imagined unlocking the secret to Malfoy's surreptitious behaviour.

Perhaps Felix _did_ know what he was doing.

"Yes, yes, you know of it?" Professor Trelawney queried, tilting her head to the side. "No matter," she said, not waiting for a response. "The point is, I found this wondrous hiding place for the bottle. The room was full of all sorts of amazing things! I thought I was the only one to know about it, but now you have told me you know of its existence, and last night, well—" she stopped suddenly, a slight quake to her shoulders. The professor's reticence lingered as she lifted her glass and downed the last of her sherry.

"What happened last night, Professor?" pushed Harry.

"I was going to hide an empty bottle of vintage," she said, her eyes the size of saucers. "It was excellent by the way, a 1974, but anyhow, I heard someone curse, and when I searched to see who it was, Instant Darkness Powder was thrown in my direction! I'm sure you can imagine my surprise; it was a wonder I managed to find my way out in the pitch black!"

"This person, did they sound like a girl or boy?"

"Boy," she said, nodding to herself. "Yes, most certainly a boy. He sounded very angry; I can only assume it was in part due to the strange outbreak of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks we've been undergoing recently. Did you know they encourage feelings of frustration and negativity? Luna Lovegood, what a fascinating girl, was telling me all about it—"

"Professor." Harry interrupted her nonsensical ramblings. "Can you describe the room where you hide your empty bottles?"

"Hm." Trelawney stroked her chin thoughtfully and knit her eyebrows together. "It was very large. I have never seen the whole thing. There were countless shelves and stacks of treasures there — furniture, thousands of books, jewellery, even Fanged Frisbees!"

"Excellent, thank you, Professor Trelawney," said Harry, standing up and gesturing to Hermione and Ron to do the same. "See you in class!"

"Yes, have a nice night, my boy!" she yelled after him. "Watch out for Snorkacks!"

**.**

**~#~**

**.**

_10:48 P.M._

"This is it. Malfoy's on the move," said Harry, slipping under his cloak. "You know what to do?"

"I catch Crabbe and Goyle out of bed," Hermione said, going through the plan step by step as she and the boys made their way to the seventh floor corridor. "Then I offer them spiked biscuits, which will knock them out for a few hours. After that, you and Ron will join me, and we'll go in together."

"Because we have to hide Ginny's diary," said Ron, lifting a thin pink book in victory. "I got it out of—"

"What?" exclaimed Hermione, utterly appalled. "I never agreed to that, Ronald! You can't just take a girl's journal! If she finds out, and she—"

"—one who knows where it is, so after I walk in the corridor—"

"—going to hex you! Bat Bogey most likely, which won't bode well for you, and—"

"—have to appear! And then I'll just—"

"—can't believe you! It's a complete invasion of personal privacy, and you—"

"HERMIONE!" shouted Ron. "That's the point! She's going to know I took it; I'm the only one who knows she likes to hide things in the bottom of her boots. I _have _to have a good hiding place for it, or she'll hex my balls off!"

"Oh, Ron, that's — that's very clever of you, actually," said Hermione, squinting at Ron contemplatively with something akin to pride.

"It is known to happen every once in a while," he said crossly, his ears pink.

"Come on then, you two! I just saw Malfoy go in!" Harry said. Though Hermione couldn't actually see him, she _could_ see the air practically vibrating in excitement.

Hermione walked over to where Crabbe and Goyle, disguised as young girls of course, were standing guard outside of the room.

"Hello," she said, attempting to sound kind and reassuring. "What are you _girls _doing out of your common room at this hour?"

Crabbe and Goyle eyed each other with what could only be described as panic. One of them, Hermione had no idea which one, dropped a pile of books to the floor, and it echoed with a bang throughout the corridor.

"There's no need to be frightened," Hermione said soothingly. "I'm not going to punish you. In fact," she continued, pulling the fresh shortbread biscuits out of her bag, "How would you like a biscuit to eat on your way back?"

The duo remained silent but two sets of hands reached for a shortbread, and Hermione smirked in satisfaction as Crabbe and Goyle both eagerly wolfed down the desserts. Seconds later, they collapsed on the floor, and Harry and Ron ran over to drag the unconscious Slytherins into a dark corner. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep them concealed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione then began to walk back and forth past the Room of Requirement, imagining the place Trelawney had told them about and thinking of Ron's need to hide Ginny's diary.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" The three turned to see a fiery redhead striding toward them with fury painted in the flush on her cheeks. "_Where is it_?"

"Where's what?" Ron asked innocently, his lethargic stroll transforming into a panic-ridden pace.

"I'm going to kill you, you arse-hole! Tell me where it is, _now!_" Ginny screamed, coming closer and closer to her brother, her wand drawn. Ron seemed to be expecting an _Avada_ when the door to the Room of Requirement came to his rescue. He raced inside, followed closely by Harry, Hermione, and unfortunately for Ron, Ginny.

"Here, take the thing; I don't want it!" He threw the diary at her as if it were infected with a contagious disease.

"Well then why the hell did you steal it?" she shouted, her hands on her hips.

"For this," said Harry in awe, spinning to see every part of the room. Hermione was similarly hypnotized by their surroundings; the room was truly something to admire. Trelawney had been right — there were thousands upon thousands of books, and Hermione wondered how long it would take to go through them. She was sure many of them were fascinating; why else would they be hidden if not for their secrets? She spotted a book entitled _Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires _next to a house of Exploding Snap cards but held herself back from going over to inspect it further.

Ginny's anger visibly dissipated as she, too, took in the room. "Wow," she breathed, the sound coming out in a whoosh of air.

"I _have _to find one of those Fanged Frisbees," Ron declared, eyes darting around for the lime green, snarling toys.

"Our priority is finding Malfoy," said Harry. "We can explore later."

"Why would you want to find Malfoy?" asked Ginny, who, Hermione realized with an internal groan, had no idea what was going on and would demand an explanation. Ginny's determination and persistence were two of the qualities Hermione admired most in her, but they could be trouble in circumstances like these. She understood though; growing up the youngest of seven with only brothers for company must have been a significant factor, if not the only factor, in the development of those characteristics as well as Ginny's hatred of being left out. "Is anyone going to answer, or am I going to have to keep pestering you?"

Hermione sighed and gave Ginny a brief overview of the past ten days of plotting against Malfoy. As soon as she finished, Harry placed an arm in front of her, blocking her passage.

"There he is," he whispered, pointing at the blond, who was concentrating so resolutely that he hadn't noticed them. He was studying some kind of cabinet, grand in size, ebony in colour, and ensconced in a particularly disorderly section of the room. The cabinet's hinges creaked in protest as Malfoy opened and pulled from it a single apple that, from Hermione's viewpoint, was missing a chunk in its side.

"What the hell?" muttered Ron, thoroughly baffled. "What's he doing, hiding snacks?"

"No idea," said Harry, "but I'm going over there." The invisibility cloak firmly in place, Harry snuck over to where Malfoy was still examining the apple with concerted effort. Ron cast a _Muffliato_, which Hermione realized was probably far too late to do any good. In fact, they were close enough that Malfoy was likely included in their bubble of silence.

"Fucking hell!" Malfoy burst out abruptly, throwing the apple to the floor. He started to storm in the direction of Hermione and the two Weasleys, his shoulders hunched in defeat. Hermione frantically tried to motion for them to run, but it was too late. They were caught. "Well, isn't this a bloody surprise? Gryffindors sticking their fat noses where they don't belong!" he yelled, his voice higher than normal and approaching a raspy screech. "You can come out now, Pothead; I know you're in here somewhere!"

"Malfoy, we were just—"

"Spying on me? Don't act all innocent, Granger; I'm not daft. You lot have been stalking me for a week," he said, his face pallid and gaunt. Hermione didn't know how she hadn't noticed it before. His face was always pale and thin, and his features had distinguishingly sharp angles, but he looked almost... unhealthy. Circles so dark they could have been mistaken for bruises shadowed his eyes, which were the colour of storm clouds over an ocean.

"Longer than a week, actually," amended Ron. He received a blow on each arm for his idiotic comment. "Ow! It's not like it matters if he knows now!"

"Why have you been following me?" asked Malfoy, addressing the now-visible Harry.

"We know you're up to something," Harry said candidly. "We want to know what."

"Well, as much as I hate to disappoint the Chosen One, I'm not up to anything." Malfoy folded his arms and made for the door. "And now I'm leaving. I don't have time for the Gryffindor Inquisition."

"And where do you think you're going, Malfoy?" asked Harry, who had extracted his wand. Ron followed his action and pointed in the blonde's direction. "We're going to get answers."

"Or what?" Malfoy said, sneering. "Wheezy will make himself puke slugs? Oh wait, he _already did that!_"

"Actually, I was thinking I'd make you shit baby ferrets. Seems appropriate," said Ron, staring Malfoy down with equal loathing. He lunged toward the blonde but fell into a shelf piled high with books and boxes, swirling orbs and colorful jars, and a corked, black beaker smashed onto the floor. Putrid, yellow liquid began to gurgle out of the oversized beaker, purple smoke rising as each bubble popped. Hermione's eyes stung and began to water; she could hardly see for the opaque gas. The air grew colder, tiny, white flakes bursting out of the purple. Awed in spite of herself, Hermione did nothing to quell the smoke but shrieked when she heard more glass shattering on the floor. This time, red gas hissed through the room and entered the middle of the purple, sinking below it. The purple half began to swirl violently, turning a hazy, midnight blue and then deepest black.

"Don't touch the smoke!" she yelled, hoping her voice would carry. "We don't know what it—" She broke off as the spinning and swirling of the black gas grew faster and faster, the billows moving so violently they seemed to vibrate. The room was growing hotter, and books, chairs, discarded clothing, and other objects began to fly toward the mouth of what looked like a giant, black funnel, spinning alongside it.

Ginny, next to her, looked terrified. "It—it looks like the floor is rising!"

"Someone, do something!" moaned Ron from behind the clouds of black and red, which smelled worse and worse with every passing second.

"Dissimulo! Dissimulo!" she heard Harry shout. A warm tingle ran down her spine like an egg yoke, and she knew he'd caught her in the crosshairs.

"Harry, that's not the right—"

"Dissimulo! C'mon, Ron, help me!"

"Oh all right then, Dissimulo! Dissimulo!"

"Ron, you just got me, you idiot!" Ginny yelled. The smoke had yet to dissipate and looked, if anything, worse than it had before. How Harry and Ron continued to miss was baffling, unless of course, they were aiming for the smoking mass rather than the bubbling, yellow liquid producing it. They were using the wrong spell regardless; they needed a vanishing charm, not disillusionment. She heard Malfoy shout from behind her.

"Are you really this mentally handicapped? That spell isn't what you think it—"

"Dissimulo, Dissimulo, Dissimulo!"

"Oi, Ron, you just hit me!" Harry's voice.

"Think I got myself to be honest," said Ron. Hermione could picture his sheepish grin. The smoke continued to rise, and she lost her balance as the floor climbed higher and higher, its slope getting quite steep. She heard Ginny fall too but could no longer see her in the midst of the madness. Hermione was sliding into the darkness now and had to do something...

"My wand!" Ginny screeched. "It slipped out of my hand, flew into the smoke, i-it's like I couldn't stop it!"

"Accio Ginny's wand!" That was Harry; she hoped his skills as a Seeker would translate to catching the small piece of wood flying though the air. "Got it!"

"Thank Merlin!"

Hermione, on the verge of pulling out her own wand, kept it in her pocket. She looked on, horrified, as the black and crimson began to rip apart, and now she was in the very middle of it. It seemed as if everything that had ever passed through Hogwarts was swirling around her now, and what looked like a colorful ring of fire skirted the outside of the black gas. But something was wrong. She shouldn't be able to see almost all of the ring.

No, no, this couldn't be...but it was, it had to be happening. There was no other explanation.

The two halves of the floor were converging, folding together like a greeting card. They were going to be crushed.

"Please, please, let us make it through this," she whispered, feeling a hitch in her throat and the prick of tears in her eyes. The other side of the floor was growing closer by the second, and she yelped as something heavy and warm fell into her. Her stomach screamed in protest; something bony had rammed into it.

"Sorry, it's me, it's Harry!"

"Harry, are you all right?" She tried to yell but knew it was more of a strangled whisper. She had to do something, had to risk losing her wand, but what could stop this? A vanishing charm no longer felt adequate, but she was going to try anyway, was willing to try anything. Her grip on her wand iron-tight, she opened her mouth and rose to her knees, prepared to scream the spell as loud as possible, to convert all of her terror into power.

"Evanes—"

Before she could finish, however, she felt a pull on her navel, not unlike the experience of traveling through portkey, and was flung backward. A myriad of screams reached her ears, some of them muffled, others as clear as if they were inside of her head. Attempting to keep her eyes open as she flew into a table, Hermione watched, open-mouthed, as the fire slowly went out and the smoke dissipated, turning a murky, charcoal gray.

"Evan-evanesco," she said, her conviction somewhat faulty, but she knew her aim was true when the rest of the smoke cleared, and the boiling, yellow liquid disappeared.

"Fucking hell." Malfoy was behind her. "Weasley, d'you want to kill me so badly that you're willing to murder everyone in your path?"

"How is this my fault?" Ron said. She heard the doubt in his voice. "Ginny, Hermione, Harry? Where are you?"

"Right in front of you — excellent! We're all invisible!" Ginny said, the sarcasm in her tone obvious. "Nice one, boys."

"I tried to tell them they were using the wrong charm!" said Hermione, vindicated but simultaneously annoyed that she was, in fact, invisible for the time being and couldn't see anyone around her. "Does anyone have an idea of what that w—"

"Ow!" she heard Ron yelp, cutting off her question.

"The invisibility's not all bad," said Malfoy, who was now in front of her judging by the direction of his voice. "That's for spilling those potions and setting off whatever the fuck that was!"

"I'll get you back for that, Malfoy, I'm going to—agh!" Half a dozen stacks of books hit the ground as a wooden table fell over. Hermione cringed upon hearing pages rip.

"Ron, are you all right?" she asked, attempting to quell her desire to laugh. She heard a cough from where Harry had been standing and assumed he was attempting to do the same. Her pulse had yet to slow, and she knew she was drenched in sweat, but the terror of the past few minutes was passing.

"No wonder you're such a shit Keeper, Weasley," Malfoy said loudly. "The only time you can stop anything is if you trip into it."

"I swear, Malfoy, slugs or ferrets, you'll be regretting—"

"Everyone, just stop!" Hermione yelled, getting in what she thought to be the middle of the conflicting sides. She wasn't exactly opposed to seeing Malfoy writhing in disgust and pain, but then again, it was answers they were after, and that wasn't the way to go about getting them. She'd almost forgotten about their original mission after the insanity of the smoke and fire. It would be best if they reconvened their questioning without any magic. Besides, Ron was likely to injure himself again if he continued to pursue the Slytherin. "Casting unpractised spells at each other will get us nowhere," she said, "and based on what we've encountered just now, I'd rather not take any risks. Are we in agreement?"

"It's a sad day for Gryffindor when its most intelligent member is a Mudblood," Malfoy said. That was likely as close to a yes as she'd get from him. "Now, if you'll either sod off or let me leave—"

"Oh, you can leave," said Hermione coolly, "but we'll be coming with you."

"Fantastic. And how long exactly will I have to endure you lot?"

She heard Harry take a step toward Malfoy. "Until you spill your guts or—"

"—or we hex them out of you!" finished Ron.

"There will be no hexing out of guts, Ronald," said Hermione, coming up behind where she knew Malfoy to be. "Now, let's get out of here. Please."

The group exited the Room of Requirement, Ron with quite a bit of trouble – Hermione had to remind him three times that he couldn't watch his feet to see where he was going – and a full minute passed before Hermione thought to mention Crabbe and Goyle to Malfoy. The Slytherin was already quite angry, and she figured having him find out down the line would prove much worse than just coming clean and enduring his fury now.

"Malfoy, you should probably see—"

She abruptly cut off. She was where Crabbe and Goyle were supposed to be, the exact place Harry and Ron had taken them, but they were gone. She hadn't been in the Room of Requirement that long; there was no way they could have woken up already. So where were they? Had someone else found and moved them? "I don't understand," she murmured, knotting her hair as her hands dragged through it.

"Let's just go," said Harry knowingly, in a voice only she could hear. "Malfoy didn't catch you saying his name, so don't worry about it now." She nodded, repeating Harry's _don't worry about it now_ in her head. She walked faster, getting ahead of Malfoy so that he couldn't sneak off. He, like the rest of them, was beginning to reappear, the white blonde of his head already visible, even in the shadows of the torch-lighted seventh floor.

"Where, pray tell, are you taking me?" asked Malfoy crossly. She understood his uneasiness; she would feel far from comfortable if the situation were reversed and she were stuck with a pack of Slytherins on an otherwise deserted seventh floor. And when Malfoy found out where they were taking him, he would probably be further enraged.

With a deep sigh, Hermione answered. "Gryffindor common room." It was where she felt safest in the castle, and she needed to be somewhere comforting and relaxing after the stress of the Room of Requirement.

"Are you completely off your bloody rocker? Do you _want _someone to murder me?"

"I wouldn't be opposed," said Ron under his breath. Hermione thanked Merlin that Malfoy didn't hear him.

"No one will be up this late," she said. She hoped it would be true.

The group walked mostly in a silence, broken up only by Malfoy's staccato, petulant grunts of annoyance. When the Fat Lady came into view, Hermione whispered the password — "_Audentia_" — so as not to allow Malfoy to overhear. A Slytherin having the ability to sneak into Gryffindor tower could only bring trouble.

The Fat Lady didn't bother lifting one of her sagging eyelids, nor did she answer. The folds of her pink satin-covered flesh rippled with her heavy breaths, the residual traces of snoring apparent in their harshness.

"What is this, the silent treatment?" asked Harry. He turned to Hermione, now fully visible. "D'you know if the password has been changed recently?"

"I haven't heard of any change this week." Hermione frowned at the thought that she, as a Gryffindor prefect, had not been informed of the altered password. Someone would be getting verbally reprimanded for the oversight; that much was obvious. Unless of course, Harry's first guess was right, and The Fat Lady was too annoyed to allow them entrance. Waves of pink swelled and ebbed through The Fat Lady's midsection as she continued to snore. A short snort, then a sigh.

Hermione stopped her inner ramblings as the distinct rap of footsteps along the corridor reached her ears.

"Dum spiro, spero!" gasped a breathless blonde boy, who didn't bother glancing at anyone, and the Fat Lady finally cracked open an eye.

"Hmpf, someone is out of bed far later than is appropriate."

Without responding, he raced past the entrance and up to the boys' dormitory, a chorus of laughs chasing him up the stairs.

"Hermione—"

"I know," she whispered. Laughter. There were people in the common room.

Hermione guessed that there must be at least two or three people inside, and she cast a silent prayer that whoever they were, they wouldn't start shooting spells at Malfoy as soon as they saw him. When she, Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Malfoy fully entered the room, she let out a breath of relief. The three wizards already in the common room had their backs to the doorway; they were facing the roaring fire and playing a game of Wizard's Chess.

"Poor Louis, still so convinced that we don't know exactly what he's doing this late at night," said a boy with messy, black hair. "Think I should chase after him and question him about his escapades?"

"Right, as if you won't find time to make fun of him tomorrow, James," said another boy, this one with red hair. "All right, your go."

"I'm going to kick your arse for that last move, Hugo." Hermione assumed that the boy responding was James, and she drew her eyebrows together in confusion.

"Who the fuck are James and Hugo? And who's Louis for that matter?" asked Malfoy, voicing the questions in Hermione's head. "The Louis one looks older than this lot, but I'm almost positive I've docked points from every first, second, _and _third year in Gryffindor, so—"

"I knew there was a reason our points were so low this year! I blamed the Inquisitorial Squad last year, but I should have suspected you'd do it regardless—"

"I can't comprehend why you're known for your intelligence. I presumed it was obvious—"

"—thought even _you _could treat the prefect post honestly—"

"—not Saint Granger, who dies of indignation if anyone dares to break—"

"—complete prat! Slytherin through and through, and you—"

"—except Potter and Weasley, who are given get out of detention free cards—"

"Oh, enough of this! Excuse me?" said Hermione, prepared to use her status in order to discover the identities of the boys. Malfoy continued to scowl, his arms folded against his chest, but stayed quiet. "James, Hugo? Is there a reason you're not in bed?"

"Oh that's brilliant, Granger, they're really going to want to go to bed with you acting like their sodding mother."

"Well, by all means, _Malfoy_, show off the authority skills you only use to terrorize people with, not for any _actual _prefect duties—"

"Those are one in the same," he said with a self-satisfied smirk. "Now, you twats, if you don't want me to knock your precious house out of the House Cup race, you'll... They're not bloody listening! Pay attention!"

James, Hugo, and the third boy didn't even look up from their game of chess and continued playing as if there was no one else in the room.

"Pay attention!" Malfoy repeated.

Silence.

"It's like they can't even hear or see you," whispered Hermione. Ice was slicing a frozen path through her blood on its way to her heart, and she began to shiver in dread. Something was terribly wrong.

"Of course they can hear me! They're being bleeding pricks, that's all! Not exactly unique behaviour for a load of Gryffindors. Fifty points from Gryffindor ought to get those smiles off their ugly faces."

"Malfoy!" objected Ron, but Malfoy paid him no mind. He was still waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from the boys.

_Please respond, please respond, please respond._

There wasn't one.

The older Gryffindors followed Malfoy's lead, rounded the couch, and began watching the younger group intently, hoping for some sort of clue into what was happening.

"Finally," said the freckled boy called Hugo, rolling his eyes. "James, you always take forever."

"I won't apologize for that," said James, his dark hair in disarray. "Perfection takes time."

"Apparently, you didn't take long enough," observed the last boy, who had strangely familiar green eyes and black hair. "You just lost."

"Checkmate!" said Hugo in triumph. "That's two out of three!"

"Best four out of five?" asked James immediately, beginning to reset the chess set as the fire danced behind him.

"No way!" said Hugo, laughing as if he was expecting this request. "My dad said never to agree to rematches!"

"I hope Uncle Ron will show me his tricks," said the youngest boy with a grin. "Dad's a better Quidditch teacher for sure, but your dad always had him beat at Wizard's Chess."

"Uncle Ron?" gasped Ginny.

"It doesn't mean anything," whimpered Ron, though he didn't convince anyone, not even himself judging by his expression. "There are lots of Rons talented at wizard's chess. It probably comes with the name, now that I think about it." He tried to chuckle, but it came out as a strangled noise.

"Shut up," Harry said, waving a hand in Ron's face.

"—and then Professor Longbottom told me I had a real talent for plants," the unnamed boy was saying, "which is good, because I read that Herbology can be really useful in healing."

"Still want to be a Healer?"

"Well, yeah. If I become a Healer, Dad won't have to take us to St. Mungo's every time we stub our toes," he said, causing the other two boys to laugh.

"Dad _is_ horrible at healing spells."

"So's mine. Mum cut herself slicing up fruit over the summer, and Dad tried to heal her, only he ended up turning the blood trails into red worms that kept crawling out of her hand. I thought she was going to leave him after that," said Hugo, snickering and shaking his head as he remembered. "Mum was beyond furious and screaming like a total lunatic."

"Aunt Lavender still freaks me out when she's mad," said James with a shudder. His dark-haired companion nodded in agreement.

"At least you don't have to live with it," Hugo said good-humouredly, in such a way that made it seem as if he didn't _actually_ mind his mother's temper.

"Well, unless she sends you a Howler like Grandma did to your dad second year, she won't be yelling at you for another couple of months at least."

"Holy shit—" Harry clamped a hand over Ron's mouth within a fraction of a second, clearly not wanting to miss another word.

"Oh yeah, for stealing that car! I would've loved to see Dad's face, Uncle Harry's too!"

"Are you guys ready for bed? I'm tired," said the youngest boy, stifling a yawn.

"Yeah, let's go."

And with that, the three boys, two black-haired, one redheaded, shuffled out of the common room and climbed the stairs to their dormitory without a single glance backward.

* * *

**a/n: **Dun dun dun dun... And the plot thickens! Luckily, it also means that this is where the good parts start!

ALSO: I've taken liberties with the kids' ages here – I wanted Hugo to be in school with James and Albus, so I upped his age a year. I'm making a couple other similar changes, which I'll explain later…


	3. Wonder

**III**

"**...wonder on, till truth make all things plain."**

—**_A Midsummer Night's Dream_**

_October 14, 2017, 12:39 A.M._

Draco, after a quick internal review of the night's events, concluded that he absolutely no idea what was going on. From the horrified looks on the Gryffindors' faces, it was not good.

Wonderful.

He would have to spend even more time with them as their sodding Gryffindor complexes activated and forced them to solve the problem, probably with a load of misplaced and unnecessary optimism. He didn't think he had ever missed the chilly Slytherin dungeons as much as he did now. Well, no, that wasn't true. There had been this summer, but — he shuddered — he didn't want to think about that. He returned his countenance to one of patronizing indifference, nose up, eyes blank, slight downturn to his lips. Just like Mother taught him.

The Gryffindors still weren't talking. Potter looked as if he were going to cry, and Weasley seemed ready to crawl into the foetal position. The Weaselette and Granger stared at each other, both obviously hysterical and struggling for words. Probably of comfort. Draco's frown deepened in disgust.

"If you don't say anything, I'm going to presume I can leave," he said, not sure whether he wanted one of them to respond or not. Sure, he didn't desire wasting another sodding second with Potter and his fan club, but then again, he hadn't ever seen the Boy Wonder shed a tear, and the only time he'd heard about him crying had been when the Dementors invaded the Hogwarts Express. Whatever was happening now must be serious, and Draco was curious. Perhaps he could use it to his advantage, strike Potter down while he was weak, get out of his mission even — but no, that was impossible. He _was_ a Slytherin after all and didn't have any of that optimistic shit running through his blood. He was a realist in the best of times and unrelentingly pessimistic in the worst. Suffice it to say this year landed in the "worst" category. No, he had no leeway in his mission, and the Dark Lord had made the..._consequences_ of not following orders disturbingly clear.

Draco shuddered again.

"Well?" he barked, straightening his spine as he spoke and glaring at his mute peers. He waited a few moments and received no answer. "Sod it."

He began moving in the direction of the door leading out of the common room when a small hand caught his arm.

"Wait, we don't know what's out there yet." Granger was green in the face and seemed about to vomit, and Draco snatched his arm away.

"Don't touch me, you filthy—"

"Malfoy, now is _not _the time for that," the Weaselette interrupted, and something in her voice made him refrain from verbally ripping her to shreds right along with the Mudblood.

"What's going on?" he demanded, growing increasingly incensed. It was torturous enough just breathing the same air as these people, but to not know why the hell they looked as if someone had told them Dumbledore just died was seriously testing the modicum of patience he possessed.

Draco grimaced as he realized the irony of his little joke.

"I — I'm not sure," murmured Granger, sinking onto one of the couches and immediately sagging her shoulders in — what? Sadness? Anger? Fear? Draco couldn't tell.

"Well, I am!" Weasley yelled without precursor, an eager look on his face_. Oh, here we go,_ Draco thought to himself._This will be bloody good._ "We're dreaming! It's obvious, isn't it?"

Weasley, as usual, didn't disappoint him in his utter stupidity.

"Yes, Weasley, because it's so _completely _logical that we could all be having the _exact _same dream at the _exact _same time," he said sardonically, taking a chair near Granger, who was still slumped over with her head in her hands. Honestly, _what_ an idiot. What anyone saw in Weasley was beyond his comprehension. Sure, he occasionally labelled Potter "Pea-Brained Potty," but even Potter was ten times as intelligent as the Weasel King.

"We could have been given the same sleeping potion!" Weasley shouted back, growing red in the face.

"So you mean to say," said Draco slowly, pretending to ponder the redhead's idea, "that we were all slipped a sleeping potion without our knowledge sometime yesterday, and this potion has somehow planted us in the _same _dream, despite the fact that the only sleeping potions we've ever learned about only cause actual sleep, not dreams?"

"Well, how else would you explain it?" he yelled, approaching hyperventilation.

"I don't know what there is _to _explain," Draco said frankly. "It's not as if any of you sods have inconvenienced yourselves enough to tell me a bloody thing."

"We're dreaming," Weasley said quietly, nodding his head with glazed-over eyes. "We must be dreaming, because otherwise..._No_, we're dreaming."

Draco allowed the ginger git to mumble on for a few moments and collected his thoughts. He would need to use another approach if he was to get answers out of the crazed Gryffindors. Clearly using rational thinking didn't work with them. He ventured to guess that under normal circumstances it would appeal to at least Granger, but these circumstances were far from normal. Draco grinned as he realized what would give him the greatest chance of success. This was going to be fun.

He stood lazily from his perch and sauntered over to where Weasley was sitting on the floor, still speaking incoherently. After bending his knees in order to reach his target, Draco lifted an arm and swatted Weasley's overgrown head with as much force as he could muster.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?" the redhead yelled, attempting to stand on teetering legs. He appeared confused, shocked, and furious — exactly how Draco had hoped he would react.

"You have fewer brain cells than you do Galleons, Weasel; what's the loss of a couple more?" Draco returned to his previous seat and folded his arms, a smug smile on his face. "Now. Care to explain why you think we're in some potion-induced dream?"

"I'm going to _Avada _you, you wanker! This isn't real anyway, so what's the harm?" Weasley laughed a little and began pacing. "I mean, this just _can't _be...this is not the future! Me and Lavender...bloody hell."

Suddenly it hit Draco like all the bricks in Diagon Alley.

_I hope Uncle Ron will show me his tricks._

_Aunt Lavender freaks me out when she's mad._

_I would've loved to see Dad's face, Uncle Harry's too!_

The future...Was it possible? He'd never heard of Hugo or James or seen the third one in the corridors, nor did he recognize that Louis character, and it wasn't as if there were lots of friends named Harry and Ron. They'd mentioned something about a Howler, too — Weasley _had _got one in second year, hadn't he? But what was that bit about the Wizard's Chess? And why the fuck didn't Granger have anything to say about this? Hell, he'd even settle for discussing it with Potter or the Weaselette, just to listen to someone with more intelligence than Longbottom's toad.

"Am I the only one who hasn't been chugging Snape's potions? Or perhaps you sucked in too much of that creepy black and red smoke?" Draco looked at the three taciturn occupants of the room; Granger was in the same position on the couch, and Potter and the Weaselette were cross-legged next to each other on the floor in front of the fire, not speaking. "You can't honestly believe — the _future_?"

"We don't know anything for certain," Granger said, finally lifting her bushy head. "There must be a more tenable theory—"

"You think?" said Draco. "The future...What a fucking joke."

"I don't find this funny!" Draco turned to peer into the bloodshot eyes of Weasley's sister. She looked wrecked, nearly as bad as Potter, and her horrid red hair burned even brighter with the light of the flames dancing behind her.

"Did I ask for your opinion, Lady Weasel?" he asked. "You come from the same family as _him_" — he jabbed a finger in the other Weasley's direction — "so you'll hardly be helpful in a situation that requires brains."

"For your information, Malfoy, I happened to receive some of the highest marks in the _school_ last year—"

"Not exactly relevant in situations where we're examining the possibility of _alternate decades_," he snarled. Merlin, she had to be almost as stupid as her brother. Their parents must be so very proud. But then again, shit apples had to come from a shit tree. The entire ginger clan was likely brain cell deficient. While Draco and his parents undoubtedly had their differences and disagreements, at least he'd inherited intellect, good looks, and money. The Weasley siblings had gotten sod all.

"Please don't fight," Granger said, rubbing her temples with a groan. "We have to figure this out, and the less we fight, the faster it'll go."

"All right then, Mudblood." She flinched at the word, but it's not as if he was going to feel remorseful for saying something _true_ when he didn't even feel guilty about the lies he'd told this year. "What's the plan? You're usually the one bailing out everyone's favorite celebrity and his number two fan, are you not? Don't worry, Weaselette," he added. "I wouldn't dare claim that anyone's more enamored than you."

"I — I was thinking of going to the library?" She phrased it as a question, ignoring his derision-soaked insults, though both Weasleys looked incensed. "We're in Hogwarts, after all, and since apparently no one can see or hear us, it's our best bet for information."

"It figures that the bookworm's solution is to go to the library," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Is it true you sleep there this year?"

Granger tried and failed miserably to hide her blush. "That was _one _time," she said weakly, her voice low. "I was up late studying, and I just sort of...Oh, this isn't important right now!"

"On the contrary, Granger, making fun of Gryffindors is always a top priority." He smirked and stretched out his legs. She was just _too_ easy to rile up, and unlike Weasley and Potter, she usually had rejoinders ready.

"Do you really think you'll find anything useful at the library, Hermione?" Draco, and everyone else in the common room, snapped their heads to look at Potter, who had spoken for the first time since the boys went upstairs.

"Oh, Harry, I can't be sure, but—"

"What do you mean will _she _find anything useful?" Draco interjected. Was this always what happened? Potter and Weasley would find themselves knee deep in shit and Granger would come to their rescue, pulling them out like dead weights? Did they even _try _to help? Merlin knew Granger was a piece of work with a bossy tone that made him want to hex his ears off, but he had to give her at least a little credit for putting up with that kind of expectation. And yet, he thought contemplatively, it was _her _fault for choosing to be friends with them in the first place.

"Oh, right," said Potter softly, adjusting his glasses. "Of course we'll all help."

"What if there's something out there we'd rather not see?" The elder Weasley huddled in the corner, his arms looped around his gangly knees. Pathetic.

"You're welcome to stay here alone, Weasel," said Draco, rising from his chair. "In fact, I'd even go so far as to encourage it."

"And leave you alone with my friends and sister? I don't think so, Malfoy!" shouted Weasley, now resolute. He strode past his fellow Gryffindors and Draco, deliberately knocking the shoulder of the latter. "Well?" He pivoted back to face them. "Are we going or not?"

.

~#~

.

_3:57 A.M._

They didn't find shit. Even Granger, who knew the library like the back of her hand, was at a loss. According to her, the shelves were "all wrong," the books "out of order," and she had "no idea" where the restricted section was. When she finally managed to find a section of books alluding to time travel, the majority of the information was about traveling to the past, not the future. Granger read a few paragraphs aloud when she found them interesting or somewhat pertinent, but nothing could explain magically popping into another time period. She couldn't find anything mentioning bubbling yellow liquid and purple, black, and red smoke, either, and he was grateful for his Slytherin scepticism, as it appeared to be the only thing keeping him sane. He was far from convinced that they'd hopped over to another decade, or universe, or whatever the Gryffindors thought possible.

Potter was on the verge of tears again.

"Harry?" asked Granger, reaching out a tentative hand and letting it fall on Potter's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I — could I have a word with you, Hermione? In private?" he asked, rising from his chair before Granger had even offered her acquiescence.

"Of course, Harry." She, too, rose and followed Potter to a dark corner of the library, where Draco couldn't discern their expressions. Lucky for him, Weasley was passed out on the wood table, snoring loudly, and if the Weaselette's keen eyes and pitched forward posture were anything to go by, she wanted to know the topic of conversation as desperately as he did.

"Watch and learn, Lady Weasel," he said, flicking his wand to the obscure corner where Potter and Granger were standing.

"If you're right...Harry, this could change everything." Granger's voice carried over to Draco and the youngest Weasley, clear as if she was sitting right beside them, but though her words were clear, their meaning was as muddy as her blood. _What _could change everything? Whatever it was, Granger sounded positively ecstatic about it, which meant he already despised the thing.

"How did you do that?"

"Shut it and listen," he snapped, not wanting to miss something important.

"I have to be right, Hermione!" Potter was insisting. "You know what the prophecy said! Either must die—"

"—At the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Granger finished for him. The prophecy. _Neither can live while the other survives..._ It must be the one his father had gone after last year, the one in the Department of Mysteries, which meant it was about…but no. That was unfathomable.

"If this really is the future," said Potter, "then either Voldemort's dead or we've been fighting him for twenty years, which isn't bloody likely, is it?"

Draco felt his heart stop in his chest. His suspicions were confirmed; the prophecy was about Potter and the Dark Lord. And if Potter was right and they were in the future, then that meant the Dark Lord had fallen, and it would follow that most of his Death Eaters had fallen with him. Death Eaters like his father. Death Eaters like _him._

Well, fuck.

Draco had a high chance of being substantially buggered. He would consider jumping for joy if he found out he was even _alive_ in whatever warped universe they'd gotten themselves stuck in, let alone married with children like Potter and Weasley. No, what was he thinking? There was no need to contemplate any sort of expression of joy, because this _wasn't _the future. He didn't know what it was, but it _couldn't _be the future. He was not going to fail, and the Dark Lord was not going to fall. Any other possibility was one he refused to consider.

"We have to find out how I did it," Potter said, and Draco refocused his attention. Being with Potter and the Gryffindors was beginning to have its perks — he'd learned about a prophecy that his father had failed to acquire, and now Potter was going to dig up the way in which he supposedly defeated the Dark Lord, all without Draco having to lift a finger. He could then hand the information over to the Dark Lord when everything returned to normal, thus preventing the possibility of Potter's victory. It was a seemingly fool proof plan, though the fact that the Weaselette knew he was eavesdropping did present a slight issue. He also had to consider the rules of time travel — could he, in fact, alter the course of history? Time, as he knew it, was a closed loop, which meant that anything he did here would make no difference to the past. Draco's mind raced to come up with a solution. Undoubtedly, the latter problem would take time to work out, but as for Ginny Weasley's suspicions of his knowledge… He found himself staring at the Weasel. As he did, it came to him. He could pretend to be as thick as Weasley, not comprehending anything Granger and Potter were saying.

Who knew the Weasel's idiocy would one day come in handy?

"What are they talking about?" Draco asked, furrowing his brows in mock confusion. "What did Potter do, and why were they saying something about a prophecy?"

"Now who needs to shut it, Malfoy?" the Weasley girl said, ignoring his questions. Well, fine. He could be persistent.

"I'm serious; tell me what they mean by it," he said in a petulant tone he often employed with his parents. Well, in his younger days at least. Now he hardly spoke to his mother, as she was frosty around other people and seldom allowed herself to melt even in front of him. He'd caught her crying once during the summer, and in response, she'd put a silencing charm on the bedroom she'd shared with his father before he was taken to Azkaban. Sometimes she still let the ice crack in front of him, but suffice it to say, this Christmas would most likely be snowy in more ways than one.

He missed her, his mother, not the listless, cold shell of a woman she'd become in his father's absence. The Mark's blackness was polluting him from the inside out; he felt sick and scared, and he craved the comforting presence his mother used to be for him in times when his father's disciplinary lectures had made him cry or when he'd fallen off his broomstick and scraped his knee. He understood _why _she had turned cold; it was her way of dealing with the grief, the fear, many of the same emotions Draco was dealing with. But unlike her, he found it difficult to live with them alone, and he reacted with a fiendfyre of rage in place of frigid despair.

As for his father, well, he wasn't quite sure how he felt about Lucius being gone. Though he was all the way in Azkaban with only Dementors for company, it was like Draco could still feel Lucius's presence every time he thought about the Dark Lord and what he was expected to do. When he'd broken Potter's nose on the train in the beginning of the school year, he'd said it was for his father. It was, but not in the way Potter had probably assumed. Draco had grown up admiring his father, never questioning what he did or why, instead copying his arrogant attitude and beliefs about the world and the people in it. His father represented strength, power, prestige — in other words, what a wizard was meant to aspire to embody. After the return of the Dark Lord, however, Lucius became a broken man, more and more deranged. Lines stretched around his mouth and forehead, and his eyes sunk into their sockets. He cowered in the Dark Lord's company and grew restless even at home, constantly fidgeting and looking over his shoulder as if he expected to be _Avada'd _at any point in time.

And it killed Draco.

He had stomped on Potter's nose with as much strength as he could for the man his father used to be, the man who'd been so utterly fucked up by the return of the Lord whose mark he bore. Draco had been hoping that if Lucius managed to retrieve whatever prophecy the Dark Lord wanted from the Department of Mysteries, then perhaps the father he knew would come back, but Potter, as usual, got in the way and ended up ruining everything.

"Did you hear me?" he asked, his voice harsher than he'd intended as he cut through his dark line of thinking.

"I heard you, Malfoy, and I chose not to answer," said the redhead haughtily. Merlin's balls, she was annoying. "I'm not going to tell you a single thing, and neither will Ron, Hermione, or Harry."

At least she was acting like she'd bought his incompetence. What was that bloody odd Muggle phrase? Hook, line, and...

"I will find out eventually, you know."

"Good luck with that, Malfoy."

Sinker.

* * *

**a/n: **I hope you liked the chapter (and Draco especially!). Please R &amp; R! xx Cam


	4. Heart

**IV**

"**False face must hide what the false heart doth know."**

—**_Macbeth_**

_14 October, 2017, 8:01 A.M._

Draco awoke to a stream of sunlight hitting his face. He groaned and arched his back. With the all of the pops and creaks his stretching produced, it was impossible that he'd slept in his bed in the Slytherin dungeons, but perhaps he was in the common room?

He cracked open a single silver eye and nearly fell out of the three wooden chairs he was lying across.

_Bugger..._

"Malfoy, you're awake." Granger stood before him, her arms wrapped around her chest.

"Brilliant observation, Granger. You really are the brightest witch of our age," he said, the bite to his words not up to par with his usual standard. It was, however, fairly early in the morning, and he'd only managed to get a few hours of sleep. He was completely knackered to put it mildly.

"Well I was smart enough to find a comfortable chair to sleep on," she said, smirking at his choice of resting place.

"Hmm," he murmured noncommittally, annoyed both that she was right and that his spine felt like a stiff metal rod.

"Malfoy, are you—"

"Whatever it is you're about to ramble on about, I'm sure it can wait until I've gotten a few more hours of sleep," said Draco, eyeing a plush-looking recliner by one of the library's endless bookshelves.

"It can't, actually," she said, a bit uncomfortably if Draco was reading her visage correctly. She waited a few seconds, shifting on her feet and chewing her lower lip.

"Well go on, then," he snapped, pleased to hear that the sharpness had returned to his voice. It simply wasn't worth his time to talk to Granger if he wasn't going to either make her cry or extremely angry, neither of which he could do if he didn't have the proper venom to his tone.

"Harry, Ron, Ginny, and I think that we should take a look round the castle, see if anything can shed some light onto our...situation." As soon as she finished speaking, she resumed tugging on her lip with her teeth.

"Granger, would you cut it out with the lip-biting? You're going to end up chewing it off with those beaver teeth of yours," Draco said in reply, though he did agree that it wasn't a bad idea to roam Hogwarts for a bit. He could find out more about what happened between the Dark Lord and Potter, possibly even discover something about his own sorry fate. _No_, he chastised himself for what felt like the thousandth time, he was _not_ in the future. But like he'd pointed out to the Weasel earlier, it wasn't a dream either. So what else could it be? Clearly the Gryffindors were resigned to accepting it as their "destinies" or something equally ridiculous, considering Potter had spent the majority of the past eight hours spouting tears of what Draco now presumed was happiness. Even Granger seemed earnest in ruminating upon the idea that the Hogwarts they were in was the Hogwarts of the future, which was perhaps the most convincing factor of all.

"It's a nervous habit; it's not like I do it consciously," she said, desisting nevertheless. "Are you honestly going to stand there and act like you're not in the least bit worried? Or afraid?"

Draco regarded her question. Was he worried or afraid? Well, he was bloody terrified that this _was _the future, that he would be dead, that the Dark Lord really had been killed, that they wouldn't be able to return to their time... Would he let Granger know all this, however?

The thought was laughable.

Sharing emotions was not common among Slytherins, and as a Malfoy, Draco was even less inclined to spill the unsavory contents of his thoughts. He'd grown up in a household of unspoken criticisms and fleeting looks of affection, of happiness hidden in tiny twitches of mouths and anger in creases between brows; tiny, transient hints at feeling that he'd learned to pick up on over time. Above all, Draco carried with him this lesson: Visible emotion is weakness.

"Why would I be worried?" he said, meeting Granger's eyes. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, but you lot are pitiful."

"We _are_ brave, but that doesn't mean we don't ever get scared. Bravery isn't the absence of fear; it's being able to keep going in spite of your fear," said Granger, looking at him strangely. He wondered briefly if she could see through his cocksure façade, but he doubted it. He'd been practicing it for years, after all.

Draco mulled over her words in his mind. He hated having to admit it, even to himself, but she had a point. He'd wasted so much time attempting to rid himself of his fear, wishing it away, even internally berating himself for having it in the first place. _Do not embarrass me by being a coward_, his Aunt Bellatrix's voice echoed in his head. _The Dark Lord is bestowing a great honour upon you. _Did being a coward mean merely having fear or letting it absorb you so fully that you gave up? He was starting to consider the latter connotation.

"Either way, Granger, you're still pathetic," he settled on in answer. "But I suppose your exploration idea isn't entirely idiotic."

"Let's go then. The others are waiting in the front of the library."

He followed her a few steps behind, suddenly not at all confident that he fancied seeing what was waiting for him in the corridors. It was easy for Potter and Weasley, who already knew some of their lives, but what if he didn't like the answers to his questions? What if his life in this alternate universe was rotten, and he was in Azkaban? What if he didn't have a life at all? Draco ran a hand through his hair and glued his eyes to Granger's mop head. _Bravery isn't the absence of fear_, he told himself. _It's being able to keep going in spite of your fear_. If he pretended like the Mudblood hadn't been the one to say it, the definition wasn't a shit inducement to keep walking.

"Okay," said Potter, the calmest Draco had seen him since the Room of Requirement. "I think we should try the Great Hall. The professors will be there, and they could discuss any number of things that could help."

"Not to mention, your...well, Hugo, James, and the other one," said Hermione, covering her near blunder. She was probably trying to keep things from getting too uncomfortable, but Draco took the opportunity to promote a sense of malaise, if only to make himself feel better about the slight nausea he was experiencing.

"Who names their son something as lame as Hugo?" asked Draco. "Not to mention the irony. Hugo has something to do with intelligence, doesn't it? Hardly screams 'Weasley' to me."

"We — we don't that Hugo is..." The youngest Weasley trailed off, casting surreptitious looks at her brother as if she feared he would faint with no warning.

"I thought the consensus was that we've somehow landed in the future, which would put Hugo as Weasel Junior and the black-haired ones as Potheads," Draco said, folding his arms and daring them to refute his claim. "I can't wait to see your offspring, Granger, if any bloke was crazy enough to marry you. I'll bet they have dead animals for hair too."

"At least I have a good chance of being _alive_," she countered, unknowingly voicing Draco's greatest fear about their predicament. "I'll bet you're in your grave, or at the very least, wasting away in Azkaban."

He realized when she said it that he hadn't ever wanted anyone to be wrong as much as he wanted Granger to be in that moment.

_No emotion, no weakness. Reveal nothing._

He shrugged.

"Well, that means I'll be away from you, so it can't be entirely awful." He smirked but had a sinking feeling it hadn't reached his eyes. "In fact, your husband will probably off himself and join me soon if he hasn't already."

"Enough, Malfoy." Potter rubbed his eyes with his palms and sighed. "It's bad enough that we're here. Don't make it worse for yourself by antagonizing everyone."

Draco bristled. Potter just had to act like he was above it all, didn't he, when only hours ago he'd been the one pointing his wand threateningly at Draco? Bloody hypocrite. Still, Draco could see the advantage to not making the Gryffindors hate him more than they already did. He was stuck in a terrible situation with only them for companionship, and if he wasn't careful, they could try to get out of it without him. He couldn't let that happen. So after Potter spoke, he gave a slight incline of his head and remained silent.

"Wow, didn't think that would actually work," muttered Potter. "Right. Shall we?"

.

~#~

.

_8:42 A.M._

It was bedlam in the Great Hall. There were students everywhere, raucous despite the hour, and Draco didn't know which direction he should be looking. The tables were overflowing with food — that was normal at least. Draco was curious as to what would happen if he took some. He _was_ famished, and they would all have to eat eventually, but would the other students see the food get taken, or would it turn invisible as soon as he touched it?

"I'm hungry," he announced to the group of Gryffindors. The Weasel's face crumpled in anguish as soon as the words slipped off his tongue.

"Me too," he moaned. "D'you think we can eat some of this?" He looked to Granger for her judgment. "We can be sneaky about it, right?"

"I suppose we have to try," she said, placing a hand on her stomach. "Get some off the ends of the tables, where there aren't as many students sitting, and make sure to do it when they're focused on their conversation rather than their plates." Weasley nodded and headed for the Gryffindor table. Shocker.

"I think the rest of us should split up while Ron gets food," said Granger. "Harry, you take the professors' table, Ginny, Ravenclaw, and I'll take Slytherin."

"And leave me with Hufflepuff? Not bloody likely, Granger," Draco said, shaking his head. He more often than not had a reason for loathing Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but Hufflepuffs? Hufflepuffs he couldn't stand on principle. "I don't need to listen to stories about rainbows and unicorns and all that shit. _I'll _go to the Slytherin table, and—"

"Fine, no one will go to Hufflepuff, and we'll both go to Slytherin. I don't trust you to report what you hear."

After deciding to meet back after breakfast had ended, Draco matched Granger's strides as she headed for his house's table. He nodded in approval as he saw the table's occupants, though the number was disconcertingly small compared to what he was used to, and the Gryffindor table looked close to overflowing with students. Though he was confident that Slytherin was still the school's best house, he wondered why the houses had grown somewhat uneven. He wondered if any of them were _his _kids. It would be bloody bizarre, but at least he would be able to rest easier knowing he was alive. He was worried enough about making it to the end of this year, let alone to whatever decade they'd recently happened upon.

"Look, the post is coming." Granger pointed to where, sure enough, owls were swooping down to the tables and dropping letters, packages, and _The Daily Prophet_. "_The Prophet_ should be enlightening, and it'll tell us which year we're in," she said, covertly grabbing one from a student mesmerized by the package he was opening.

Draco took a seat next to her on an empty section of the bench. As she unrolled the newspaper, he felt that the headline blaring at them in thick, black letters was a harbinger of his fate before deciding that the thought was ridiculous. The chances he'd be mentioned in the article, even if he were alive, had to be slim.

As Draco moved the paper to allow them both to see, his eyes quickly scanned the front page, which featured a picture of an older Potter, grinning widely next to Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was disappointed to see that Potter didn't look any more hideous in his old age than he did in the present time.

**_14 October, 2017_**

**_WAR MEMORIAL TO BE ERECTED FOR THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC_**

_The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, announced just yesterday that a war memorial will be built and placed in the centre of the Ministry of Magic's offices in order to honour the fallen heroes of the Great War, which ended nineteen years ago. The memorial, which is expected to feature the names of all those who lost their lives in battle, is to be completed by the twentieth anniversary of the war and will be unveiled during a grand celebration in Diagon Alley before being moved to its permanent resting place in the Ministry. The celebration, under the direction of head event planners Lavender Weasley and Parvati Boot, will include a parade, fireworks, and speeches from the "Golden Trio" as well as Draco Malfoy and Neville Longbottom, who were instrumental in the defeat of You-Know-Who._

"WHAT?" Granger had to have reached the same line as Draco. "You were — you were—"

"Instrumental in the defeat of the Dark Lord," Draco whispered, not understanding what he was reading. It couldn't be... _Him_? _He _helped kill his own master? Why would he do that, and how? The slight rush of relief he felt at being alive in this universe was smothered by an overwhelming sense of disbelief and horror. "No," he said aloud, his voice cracking. "I don't — I wouldn't—"

"You did," said Granger softly, shaking her head and looking up at him with wide, honey eyes. "You must have."

Draco didn't answer her. He had to know more. He didn't believe this; obviously it was bullocks, all of it, and yet...

Fucking hell.

He didn't actually think any of this could be true, did he? He wanted desperately for the answer to be no, but there was an undeniable pull in his gut enticing him to keep reading. He snatched up the paper and stood, scanning the remainder of the page as swiftly as he could.

The article didn't mention him again. After leafing through the rest of the paper, he confirmed that his name wasn't included in any other articles. It felt like the universe had thrown him into a sandpit of confusion and questions, and he was sinking, sinking... He glanced at his left arm, mercifully covered by his stiff, white shirt, and felt his breath hitch.

"Malfoy, are you—"

"DON'T TALK TO ME!" he screamed, pushing his white-blond hair out of his eyes. "You or any of your sodding friends! Just— just stay the fuck away!"

Granger's eyes, if it was possible, got even larger before tightening into slits. She placed her hands on her hips and raised her voice.

"I'm just trying to HELP! I'm sure that this information is a lot to handle, so—"

"You think?" Draco barked out a hollow laugh that burned his lungs.

"So let us help, Malfoy," she tried again, taking a step forward. "If what _The Prophet _says is true, then—"

"SHUT! UP! I don't need or want a Mudblood's _help_!" he yelled, clenching his fists. And what he wanted even less was any trace of compassion, which only served to provoke his rage further. "Even if what the bloody _Prophet_ says is true, which I refuse to believe, that doesn't make us allies!"

"Maybe not now, not yet, but—"

"But nothing!" He ran his hands through his hair, further disheveling it. "I still hate you, all of you!"

Granger stopped her movement.

"The feeling is mutual; I assure you," she said. "But you can't deny what's written in black and white. Somewhere along the line, you must have changed. People can do that, you know." With that, she turned on him and strode away, seizing the paper as she did so.

Granger was wrong. People don't do complete one-eighties. They don't start with a Dark Mark on their arm and end with a Phoenix badge. They don't serve the Dark Lord only to become a Potter supporter. They don't stop despising Mudbloods and blood traitors when it's all they've ever known. And because he knew people couldn't change like that, that he _wouldn't _change like that, he could deny the contents of _The Daily Prophet _as much as he bloody wanted.

.

~#~

.

_9:19 A.M._

Draco dreaded returning to the middle of the Great Hall, where everyone was expected to reconvene after breakfast. No doubt the other Gryffindors would react in the exact manner Granger had, trying to help him, acting like they were some sort of _team _now. Merlin, this place was fucked. Suddenly the idea of him ending up in Azkaban wasn't so bad. At least if he were there, he wouldn't have presumably betrayed his family and everything he believed in. If what was written in _The Prophet _was to be taken as fact, Draco realized, then _he _was a blood traitor. His father probably despised him, maybe even his mother, and most definitely his Aunt Bellatrix and his uncles, Rabastan and Rodolphus. It was like a punch to his gut.

His entire family against him.

Him, on the side of Potter and the Order.

A line drawn between everything he thought he knew about himself and everything he was discovering...

"Oh, Malfoy, there you are." He recognized Potter's voice and didn't bother raising his head; he was sure Potter would have plenty to say without him needing to comment. "Did you and Hermione find out anything?"

"What?" Draco blinked. Granger hadn't told him? Why was she bothering to withhold anything from Potter and the rest of the motley crew? It couldn't be out of deference to him; she'd made her dislike abundantly clear.

"I guess that's a no," said Potter, who Draco noticed was not carrying a paper or looking at him with anything other than hesitant toleration. "Do you at least know where she went?"

"Right here." Granger joined them, a heap of fruit in her arms and both Weasleys on her tail. She set it down on the now-empty Slytherin table, and all of them took seats on the benches, enthusiastically digging into the food. The Weasel had also managed to bring toast and muffins, and the Weaselette carried a stack of gold plates and cups and a near-full jug of pumpkin juice.

Draco, feeling the need to connect with _something_ in his normal life, took a gleaming, green apple out of the pile. He bit into it, enjoying the satisfying crunch and tart taste to the juice.

He could feel Granger staring.

"Take a photo, Granger, it'll last longer," he said, wiping his chin with a napkin. Not his best line and hardly original, but he couldn't be expected to be on the top of his game only a few minutes after _The Prophet _had brought on his personal Armageddon.

"I'd only consider that if someone turned you back into the amazing bouncing ferret," she said calmly, choosing a blueberry scone to munch on.

Good. She was back to being a bitch. But it didn't do anything to explain why she'd neglected to mention his future...actions to her friends. Actions that had been "instrumental" in saving their sorry arses.

Why would any incarnation of him think that was a good idea?

"So," Granger said, clapping her hands together. "Did anyone have any success?"

"You could say that," Potter replied slowly.

A few seconds stretched out in silence, and Draco decided that along with being exceedingly sensitive, Gryffindors were also unbearably patient. He would have to rectify that.

"Explain, Potter," he drawled, taking another bite out of his apple.

"McGonagall is Headmistress."

Draco looked up, now much more attentive. If the crazy cat-lady was in charge of the school, did that mean Dumbledore was dead? And if so, had Draco been the one to do it? He couldn't imagine that being the case if his future self was asked to speak at the unveiling of a war memorial. So did the old loon retire after the war, or had the Dark Lord gotten someone else to do what Draco could (or would) not? Even as the thought occurred to him, he discounted it. His mission was to be carried out by him alone; he had an accessibility that the Dark Lord could never hope to have, and the Headmaster was weaker, more vulnerable this year. Draco had noticed his shriveled, blackened hand on the very first night he'd returned to Hogwarts, and Snape had let slip that one of the potions brewing in his office was for Dumbledore. He'd said nothing more, but Draco hadn't needed him to elaborate — he was sure that the potion had something to do with whatever it was that had ravaged the Headmaster's flesh from the inside out.

"And she was talking about an article in _The Prophet_" — Draco held his breath as Potter got on with his story about McGonagall — "but I couldn't get my hands on it."

He let out a sigh of relief.

"I glanced at the date," said Granger. "It's 2017. What did you find out about the article?" Was Draco imagining things, or did she look nervous? She cast him a furtive glance, and he scowled back.

"She thinks they'll specially honour Dumbledore in a war memorial service, along with..." Potter grimaced and paused for effect. "Snape."

"Snape?" Weasley echoed. "Why the hell would they honour _Snape?_"

"Dunno," Potter said. "Dumbledore always trusted him though. Maybe he was right all along."

"I can't believe Dumbledore didn't survive the war," whispered Granger, her eyes getting misty. "I wonder who killed him..."

"It had to have been You-Know-Who." At a pointed look from Potter, Weasley's teary-eyed sister corrected herself. "I mean V-Voldemort. Who else would have stood a chance in a battle with Dumbledore?"

Draco silently acknowledged that her point had merit, but it couldn't assuage his earlier doubts. Could Draco have got out of his mission after all; could the Dark Lord truly have changed his mind and decided to do the deed himself, to face the one wizard he was rumoured to fear?

No. He had to stop deluding himself, giving into the temptation of entertaining anything but worst case scenarios. The Dark Lord had made Draco's mission all too clear. He was to complete it on his own, and the deadline was non-negotiable. Nothing about service to the Dark Lord was negotiable. There were moments he wondered if he'd been set up to fail, and he knew that was his mother's wholehearted belief. It was a punishment for Lucius, she was sure, and whatever time she'd spent outside of her bedroom after Lucius's arrest, she'd spent with Draco. Sometimes, his mother looked at him so piercingly and with such intensity that he wondered whether she thought she could protect him with just a look, could keep him from disappearing. From dying.

As for Snape, he didn't know what to think. Despite the fact that Snape was his Head of House and the professor he'd always most admired, he had never been close enough to the man to learn much of his personal life and on no occasion anything about his private beliefs concerning the Dark Lord. Most of what Draco _did_ know was based on loose assumptions and hearsay. He knew that Snape was a spy for the Dark Lord, but he couldn't discount the idea of him being a double agent. He was mysterious, quiet, and expressed even less emotion than the normal Death Eater, never allowing the others to be privy to his internal monologue. Never once had Draco seen him kill or even suggest killing, and now that Draco thought about it, his solemn professor had not uttered the word "Mudblood" in his company.

Snape had been harbouring a secret as big as his sodding nose for years, decades even, and Draco was helpless against the swell of anger and hurt that bubbled in his chest. He'd always fancied his favorite professor partial to him, thought that their relationship was one of trust and respect between mentor and mentee.

Snape, deceiving him his entire life? Snape, a spy for the Order and a blood traitor? He was as bad as...

Well, Draco apparently. The realization induced a grown — the bloody mental cartwheels he had to do just to keep up with this shit…

"You're absolutely right, Ginny," Granger was saying, "which is why we're going to find out how it happened and stop it when we get back to our time."

"Do you really think it's a good idea to try to mess with the future? And is it even possible?" Draco asked. The results couldn't be any better than messing with the past, and those could be disastrous, based on what he'd read of them earlier that day. Eloise Mintumble was evidence of that; the Unspeakable had traveled to 1402 for five days and managed to erase the existence of twenty-five descendants of the people with whom she interacted. Upon returning to the present, her body had aged half a millennium, and Eloise, shrunken and wrinkled like an old raisin, died in Saint Mungo's soon thereafter. "Besides," Draco added, "I thought we were on a closed loop — if we're seeing the future, anything we've done in the past has already happened, including any attempts to change it."

"Well you can't expect me to sit around and not try!" Granger swiped at a tear with a cloth napkin. "From what I've read of time travel, Novikov's principle is fairly clear, but there must be a way around it. Eloise Mintum—"

"Oh excellent, you're going to use _that_ shitshow as your inspiration? I'm sure the old coot will apprecia—"

"Don't call him that!" She squeezed her hand into a fist, and crumbs danced onto the table. "Just because _you _aren't upset by this—"

"Don't you dare act like you have a clue what I'm thinking, Granger," said Draco, seething. "I was merely suggesting that we consider the implications of running round, changing the future on a bloody whim."

"Sure you were," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Besides, this is far from a _whim!_ It's Dumbledore!"

"Sorry, but what's the Novikov principle?" asked Potter.

"It's a time travel theory by a Muggle named Igor Novikov; it basically means that the probability of any event that changes the past is zero," Granger said, opening her first and letting the rest of the scone crumbs tumble out. She used her index finger to push the flecks of pastry into piles. "For instance, if we save Dumbledore, our future selves will have no reason to figure out what caused his death and save him in the first place."

Potter looked crushed by her answer, as did both Weasleys. Draco wasn't sure what they'd been doing during the hours they'd spent in the library, but it was evident that he and Granger had taken in far more information than anyone else (though he assumed she'd learned about Novikov from somewhere other than Hogwarts; he didn't think the school possessed any books on Muggle theories).

"So there's no hope of saving anyone who we find out died in the war?"

"I don't know, Ginny." Granger's compiled the trio of mini crumb piles into one, and she shaped the heap into a star. "If Eloise found a way to ch—"

"Again with the Mintumble shit; you need to accept the truth of the situ—"

"Accept the truth of the situation? You're one to talk." Her eyes blazed, and he could have sworn that he felt the brush of a newspaper against his arm under the table.

Draco grit his teeth in annoyance. First she was disappointed when he lashed out at her, and now she couldn't see it when he was actually trying to help?

"Fine, prance around, fuck everything up. See if I care."

"Who pissed in your pumpkin juice?" asked the Weasel, sniggering into his own glass.

"Keep talking, Weasley, and I'll be sure to piss in yours," Draco snapped, done with this breakfast, done with these Gryffindors, done with this horrific universe.

He didn't speak for the rest of the morning, even after Granger acknowledged that it was likely impossible for them to do anything to correct what had already happened. She was oddly knowledgeable about the subject of time travel, beyond the material available in the library, and he wondered whether she had experienced it before. As for the rest of the group, the Weaselette hadn't learned much of interest at the Ravenclaw table, though she did find out that Loony Lovegood was married and had twin boys in the house. According to her, Lorcan and Lysander were perfectly normal, but Draco found that hard to believe. Knowing Lovegood, she'd probably trained them to conduct searches for Nargles before they could walk.

The other Weasley had been so focused on collecting food that he hadn't heard anything, and Potter said that the rest of the conversation among the professors was negligible, though he'd been quite glad to learn that Longbottom was, in fact, the Herbology professor and that Hagrid remained the Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Draco, however, wasn't so pleased. The half-giant was probably still letting the repulsive creatures he brought to class injure defenceless students, looking on gleefully as people incurred bites and bruises.

And the worst part? The Gryffindors wanted to go.

"No," Draco said stubbornly, the first word he'd spoken since his previous quarrel with Granger. "Absolutely not. _Any _class but that one."

"Muggle Studies, then?" asked Granger, lifting an eyebrow. Draco made a sound of displeasure. "That's what I thought," she said, marching down to the shabby hut the gamekeeper lived in. Potter and the two Weasleys were already almost there.

"Are you always such a bitch?"

"Are you always such a prick?"

"It's called being confident, Granger. You should try it sometime, maybe even pluck up the courage to tell Weasley how much his ginger hair turns you on," he taunted.

Her cheeks burned pink. "I hardly think it matters now," she said, holding her head up and failing miserably to convince Draco with her wobbly smile. "He's going to marry Lavender."

"Must be devastating for you, the whole Novikov thing," said Draco dryly, kicking a stone along the hill down to the gamekeeper's hut. "Which would you do if it _were _possible — save the mad professor or get it on with the Weasel?"

"No need to be crude," Granger snapped, but to his surprise, she answered his question. "Preventing death is not the same thing as preventing two people that love each other from being together, which I assume will one day be the case with Ron and Lavender. One is selfless, and the other is entirely selfish, so it should be obvious which I'd pick." She gazed up at him with what he interpreted as suspicion. "Why do you care anyway?"

"I don't," Draco said in a bored tone. He kicked the stone too hard, and it rolled the rest of the way down the hill, out of his reach. "It's getting my mind off the torture I'm about to endure."

"Hagrid's class—"

"Is a waste of time, and anyone with half a brain knows it, which is probably why Weasley and Potter are so bloody excited about going. Every word that comes out of that oversized troglodyte's mouth is bullshit."

"Don't you dare insult—"

"You asked for my opinion, Granger," he said, shrugging.

"No, actually, I didn't," she shot back, stomping away from him, her bushy hair flying behind her.

"Whatever," he called, but the word was lost in the susurrus of the autumn wind.

.

~#~

.

_10:33 A.M._

"Today I have a special treat for yeh," said Hagrid, his face alighting in glee.

"Oh lovely," Draco said darkly. "Thank Merlin we don't have to participate."

"Shut up," Granger hissed. He had a feeling she was still upset about his earlier remarks about the idiocy and uselessness that was Care of Magical Creatures class and likely his reaction toward _The Prophet _too.

"Feast yer eyes on this incredible beauty," the professor exclaimed, gesturing to a green ball in the cage behind him. As if on cue, the thing stretched out its long limbs to reveal webbed hands and feet, tiny head horns, and a revolting pustule on its forehead. It grinned, and Draco swore it looked right through him.

_Incredible beauty_. Right.

"What the hell is that?" asked Draco. He heard one of the students ask the same question behind him. It was comforting to know he wasn't the only one who thought the half-giant should be put in a nuthouse.

"This here, Mr Malfoy, is a clabbert."

Draco froze. There was no way the oaf could see him, was there? No one had been able to in the Great Hall...

"Malfoy." Granger gave his sleeve a tug.

"Thanks a lot, Granger; now I have to burn this shirt."

"_Malfoy_," she repeated, and he grudgingly turned to where she was gesturing.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe properly.

The resemblance was uncanny. Same platinum hair, same angular features, same well-trained posture... He couldn't place the eye colour, but the boy couldn't be anyone else's son.

He had a _son._

"It doesn't attack humans, does it?" the younger Malfoy asked, eyeing his professor with thinly-veiled distrust.

"Only prats like you." Draco recognized the Potter boy from Gryffindor Tower. James, was it?

"Then you'd better run and hide too," said the blond, smirking. Much to Draco's consternation, James actually _laughed_ back. His son was friends with Potter's kid?

"Since they seem ter know so much about them, how's about James and Scorpius come up and tell us what they read on clabberts in their textbooks las' week?"

_Scorpius_. His name was Scorpius.

Of course, Draco had always known that he would eventually become a father. It was no secret that the family mantle would one day be passed to him, but the idea used to seem far more desirable than it had for the past few months. He could no longer help the traces of bitterness that permeated his conversations with his mother, the reluctance with which he signed her letters to his father in Azkaban.

_Your son, Draco._

They say blood is thicker than water; sometimes it's so thick it weighs you down to your bones.

He often found himself wondering whether his parents resented him for the obligation of child bearing they'd been forced to fulfill, whether that's all he was to them — an obligation — but according to tradition, the Malfoy name must live on. An heir must be produced — a legacy even more than a child, especially in his case. Draco need only pull up his sleeve to reveal the mark that was his father's stamp of approval. But this... This was surreal.

The possibility that he would continue the Malfoy name was no longer hypothetical; the obligation had been dutifully carried out despite his blood traitor status. Draco supposed it was always going to be this way, but when he looked at Scorpius, he wasn't hit with the rush of resentment he expected. He almost felt... proud.

But of course a Weasley had to ruin the moment.

"I can't believe you made fun of me for naming my kid Hugo when you named your brat Scorpius," he said, snickering. "What kind of name is that anyway?"

_A bloody better one than Hugo..._

"My family has a tradition of naming their children after constellations and stars," Draco said instead, not sure why he was bothering to explain. It wasn't as if he owed it to Weasley. "Scorpius is—"

"One of the brightest constellations, given the Latin name for scorpion." Draco sighed. It figured that Granger, otherwise known as the human encyclopaedia, would know all about it. "But fascinatingly, not every culture refers to it as scorpion. In Chinese mythology, it's actually considered part of the Azure Dragon, so I suppose it fits that you named him Scorpius." At Weasley's obtuseness, Granger continued. "His name is Draco, which means dragon, so it makes sense that he would—"

"If he doesn't get it yet he never will," Draco cut in, wanting to watch Scorpius, to learn more about him. It was odd that he was friends with a Potter, but, well, no one could reach perfection, not even Malfoys.

Though they certainly surpassed any Gryffindor family in the pursuit of it.

Besides, if Granger somehow succeeded in tampering with the future, why couldn't he make a few changes as well? The first would be advising his son to stay far away from Potters and Weasleys...

"Wha', Mr Malfoy, will cause the growth on a clabbert's forehead ter turn red?" asked Hagrid.

"Wait — clabberts! Now I remember reading about them," Scorpius answered, his eyes bright. "Sensation of danger, right?"

"Exactly! Five points ter Slytherin. Now, Mr Potter." The half-giant stepped in front of the dark-haired boy. "Clabberts are a crossbreed of which two animals?"

James' eyes widened in distress before he locked his gaze to the ground. "Er—" he began sheepishly, fiddling with his robes.

"That's what I thought," sighed his professor, smiling fondly at his student despite his lack of preparation for class. "Scorp?"

"Frog and monkey," said Scorpius automatically.

"Another five points ter Slytherin. James, are yeh tryin' ter let them win the House Cup this year?" He laughed boisterously.

"It's the only way they _can_ win, Professor," said James. "I'm just trying to give the poor snakes a chance."

"Feel free to let my mum know," said Scorpius. "She and Dad have one of their _friendly_ bets going, and to hear that Gryffindor is throwing the competition...Let's just say she'll be less than pleased, and I'd rather not be on the receiving end of that tantrum."

James visibly flinched. "Well, maybe I'll do a little reading next time."

"Alrigh' class. Everyone needs ter write forty lines on the clabbert — twenty on background information, twenty on observation."

Draco blindly followed Scorpius and James, who were finding a picnic table where they could complete the assignment, and reflected on this new information. Things kept getting more and more convoluted, and unfortunately he could no longer blame Potter for his earlier mental breakdown. He felt on the verge of mental incapacitation himself as the vestiges of his Slytherin scepticism began to slip away.

He reviewed what he'd learned thus far: This was the future. _His _future. He'd helped Potter win the war. He'd survived it and now had a son and wife.

Draco's head sunk onto the table as he realized the infinite calamities that could result from any attempt to alter the result of the war, however unlikely its success, but he had to try, didn't he? He didn't revel in the obsequious behaviour expected of him by the Dark Lord like his Aunt Bellatrix, but at the same time, his master represented the value Draco held closest — the idea that some wizards were better than others because of their blood. And without his beliefs, what was he?

Nothing. He was nothing. And that feeling of nothingness, that possibility of obliterating the foundation of his being, was enough to discount whatever and whoever he could be in the future. The tinge of pride he'd felt around Scorpius couldn't possibly be worth losing his identity and ostracizing the remainder of his family. Nothing was worth that.

He looked up and noticed that the Gryffindors had congregated around him, varying expressions on their faces. With a nudge from Granger, Potter opened his mouth to speak.

"Malfoy, er—"

"Shut it, Potter."

* * *

**a/n: **I know some of you expected Draco and Hermione to realize right away that Scorpius is their son, but a prolonged discovery has been my plan all along. You may have noticed that I made another age change - I put Scorpius in James's year instead of first year. I wanted him to be a bit more mature. Hope you liked the chap!


	5. Good

**V**

**"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."**

**—Hamlet**

October 15, 2017, 12:48 P.M.

After Hagrid's class, the group used the remainder of the day to sneak food from the kitchens, slip into the prefects' bathroom for showers (scourgifying their clothes in between), and figure out where they were going to sleep. After much argument, it was decided amongst the Gryffindors that the library was the safest place to stay, but Malfoy was insistent that they try the Room of Requirement. Even if it didn't send them back to the present time, at least it could supply proper beds for all of them.

He had been right. The room transformed into a large flat, complete with a furnished sitting room, fireplace, kitchen, bathroom, and five beds (a bedroom for her and Ginny, one for Harry and Ron, and mercifully, Malfoy had his own room). As grateful as Hermione was for the comforts the room provided, Malfoy's smug smile was almost enough to make her regret yielding to his unrelenting demands. Almost. The bed had been comfortable, and she'd gotten much more sleep than the previous night, not to mention she now had clean robes at her disposal, tucked away in a wardrobe.

She and the others were presently gathered around the table in the kitchen eating lunch, and Hermione couldn't stop watching him. With the exception of determining their living arrangements, Malfoy had been uncharacteristically quiet, all frowns and brooding, and only spoke when directly spoken to by someone else in the group (which was rare). It was unnerving to say the least.

Not to mention those bloody green apples.

He was driving her up the wall with them, eating one every few hours and chewing as loudly as possible because he knew it irritated her. Harry was adamant that they all try to be more sensitive and cautious around the Slytherin because of his likely mental delicacy at present, but Hermione was close to strangling him. Malfoy knew it too, was practically relishing in it, along with the fact that she couldn't actually act on her desire to inflict physical harm on him for two reasons. One: she didn't want to cause friction with Harry, who didn't even know about Malfoy being "instrumental" to Voldemort's defeat, and two: she was loath to be the source of a nasty confrontation. The slap in third year was…an isolated incident. She'd been tangled up in a tightly wound ball of emotions, and Malfoy happened to be the one to untangle it. Well, she supposed it was really his face — his hideous, pointy, pale face, which was once again twisted into the emotional equivalent of a wet blanket.

"Stare any harder, Granger, and you're going to give yourself a brain aneurysm."

"Deigning to speak with us now, are you Malfoy?" she asked, blood boiling as Malfoy's eyes remained glued to the book he was reading, something by Bathilda Bagshot.

"Well I wasn't planning on it, but your ogling is making me uncomfortable. I realize I'm quite visually stunning, but—"

"Every time I think you can't possibly get any more full of yourself, you surprise me," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms and letting out an unflattering combination of a sigh and a snort. "And just so you know, there's a difference between staring and glaring at someone."

"You're right. Glaring doesn't bother me; I've gotten used to people being jealous. Staring, however, admittedly irks me," said Malfoy, finally raising his head from behind the book.

"I was _not _st—"

"You were too, but I'm willing to forgive you so long as I get a nice, long—"

"I swear to Godric Gryffindor," she ground out, her nostrils flaring. "If you say apology, I will not hesitate to stick his sword up your arse."

"She's rather feisty today, isn't she?" Malfoy said drolly, glancing around the table as if her fellow Gryffindors would answer in the affirmative…and yet the lack of response didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He was semi-smirking for the first time since Care of Magical Creatures. "So what's wrong, Granger?" he asked, leaning forward until she could smell the apple on his breath. "I suspect your chastity belt is on too tight; I can see how that would make you unpleasant. Or maybe it's just that time of the mo—"

"Densaugeo!" yelled Hermione, aiming the end of her wand at Malfoy's mouth. She hadn't hesitated, hadn't thought anything through before acting. The spell reached its target, and Malfoy's teeth grew to a gross size, incongruous with the rest of his features. "Remember that little gem, Malfoy?" she asked scathingly, referring to the duel he and Harry had in fourth year, in which Malfoy's Densaugeo spell had deflected and struck Hermione.

"You Mudblood bitch!" Malfoy stood, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out his wand.

"Go ahead," she said calmly, staying in her chair and crossing her legs. "But you should probably remember that you're in a room full of Gryffindors."

Hermione's words weren't even necessary. Harry, Ron, and Ginny already had their wands at the ready, and Ginny had her mouth open as if she were about to let out a nasty hex.

Malfoy slowly lowered his own wand and took two deliberate steps back.

"So that's how it's going to be, is it?" He cast a scornful glower toward each of them, lingering on Hermione. "Every time I do or say something one of you doesn't like, you'll all gang up on me?"

"We wouldn't expect you to understand the concept of loyalty," Ginny said, her fingers turning white with the tightness of her grip. "But we happen to stick up for our own."

"Who's antagonizing who now, Potter?" sneered Malfoy before trudging over to the bathroom, the usual poise to his gait absent, and slamming the door behind him.

Hermione watched the white door until Harry cleared his throat and broke the tense silence.

"Er, Hermione, he may have a point."

Her mouth opened in indignation. "WHAT? Did you not hear what he was saying?"

"He was acting like a prat," said Harry, shrugging. "It's not exactly unusual behaviour for Malfoy."

"But — but—"

"Hermione," Harry tried again, a pleading note to his voice. "I loathe Malfoy as much as you do, and you know that, but think about his situation. He's here in his future with no friends, and he's finding out things about his life that are probably freaking him out." Harry shook his head. "I know I would be a mess if you all weren't here with me. Look, just — I think the mental and emotional torment is bad enough without us adding physical on top of it. I still want to find out what he's been up to in the present time, but—"

"I get it," Hermione said, placing her palms flat on the hardwood table. "I'll try to be more…understanding."

"We all will," Ginny put in. She then gave Ron a slap on the arm, prompting him to speak.

"Uh, yeah, no promises."

"Come on, mate, it's not like I'm suggesting we make nice with him and have a friendly round of butterbeers," Harry reasoned. "He's still Malfoy."

"Exactly!" Ron pointed out. "He's still Malfoy, also known as the wanker who has tormented us for six years! He broke your nose a month ago, for Merlin's sake! So why should we treat him any differently now?"

The question suffused itself in Hermione's mind — Ron had a point. She found herself agreeing to Harry's request, but a significant part of her assent was based on information about Malfoy's future that she, and she alone of the Gryffindors, possessed. Hermione had come close to telling Harry more than once but couldn't shake the feeling that Malfoy's eventual heroism was his secret to divulge. She supposed that Malfoy's apathetic silence was a substantial cause of her anger regarding the Slytherin — she wanted him to stop pretending that he hadn't read The Daily Prophet the day before, stop pretending that nothing had changed, stop pretending that he didn't have another — a better, lighter — side to himself, even if it was buried so deeply that neither of them could see it. The newspaper had as much as proved it existed.

Never having been one to suppress her emotions or avoid confronting them, Hermione was having difficulty comprehend Malfoy's decision to hide from his personal tribulation and by extension, his feelings. And above all, she despised denial, which Malfoy was over his head in at the moment. She wasn't naïve enough to think that Malfoy would choose to confide in her about anything, but she was his only option at the moment. It couldn't be healthy to keep everything internalised, for him to grind his teeth and bite his tongue and hold words in his throat.

It was as if each little thing Malfoy did over the past twenty-four hours — or rather, everything he didn't do — irritated her to no end, but she found herself speaking anyway.

"Malfoy is more like us than he cares to admit." Hermione looked down at her hands and began tracing the patterned grains of the wood. "He's scared." She saw a flash of his face from the library the day before, the way he'd looked when they'd been speaking of bravery. Something she'd said had terrified him, and though he'd tried to cover it quickly, she hadn't missed his haunted expression, the pain that had swirled, ever so fleetingly, through the murky, cinereous depths of his eyes. "And like Harry said," she carried on, pushing the image of Malfoy from her mind, "he doesn't have anyone. If we show him a little compassion…who knows what will happen? He can't possibly react any more poorly than he just did."

"Oh, bloody hell. Fine! I will try to be…what word did you use, Hermione?"

"Understanding," she supplied.

"Understanding," said Ron, frowning at the prospect of being civil with Malfoy.

"So how are we going to…go about this?" Ginny asked, looking to Harry.

"An apology would be a good start," he said. "Hermione, what do you think?"

"When you say apology, you mean an apology by me," she said, clarifying more than asking. She could tell Harry was nervous to give her an answer and expected her to throw a tantrum. Well, she wouldn't. She would be mature about this. "Honestly, Harry, it's fine," she assured him. "I'll go tell Malfoy I'm sorry for giving him massive teeth, and all will be right in the world again."

"Well, except that Voldemort is anxiously waiting to kill me in our time," Harry quipped, giving his lightning bolt scar a light tap.

Hermione laughed, not knowing exactly when joking about Voldemort had become okay, only that somehow, it had. "Yes, except for that."

.

~#~

.

1:26 P.M.

"I know you're out there, Granger."

She cracked open the door, stepped through, and hesitantly clicked it shut behind her.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I could see your hideously clunky shoes under the door."

"Ah, of course." She paused, looking down at the black Mary Jane flats he spoke of. They weren't that bad.

"Come to add to your masterpiece?" he asked, gesturing toward his abnormally large teeth. "Some elephant ears to go with my chipmunk teeth, perhaps? Just do me a small favour, and stay away from the hair."

"I - I," Hermione spluttered, her pride going down her throat with about as much ease as a boulder. She swallowed. "I just, er, wanted to…apologize," she said, the last word little more than a breath. Her gaze lingered on her shoes.

"What?"

"I –" she looked up and was shocked to see that Malfoy's jaw had dropped. "You heard me," she said, the words an unconvincing assertion of confidence. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the shoes Malfoy had insulted.

"Yes, hence the reason I'm staring at you like you've been invaded by a body snatcher."

"Staring, not glaring?"

She looked up, and he gave the ghost of a smile. "I don't know. Which makes you more uncomfortable?"

She thought for a beat. "Glaring, I suppose."

"Then glaring. Definitely."

"You really do look ridiculous," she said, laughing a little to herself as she examined her wand's work.

Malfoy scowled. "Yes, you're hilarious. Now, if you're really sorry, fix my teeth. I'd do it myself, but I've never needed beauty charms."

"Only ever learned the curses then, hm? You know, it's a bit irresponsible not to know the charms or countercu—"

"I don't know where you think this little lecture is going, bu—"

"Oh, all right, I'm doing it." She waved her wand, shrunk his teeth back to normal size, then took a seat on top of the vanity, across from Malfoy, whose long legs dangled gracefully in the empty tub. "I shouldn't have cast that spell."

"No," he said coldly. "You shouldn't have."

"I guess I'm just — Malfoy, are you going to tell them? I feel like I'm lying, and it's awful. They're my best friends—"

"Tell them what?"

"About what was written in The Prophet — about you," she tacked on hastily, her heart fluttering when Malfoy's expression turned even frostier. "I really thi—"

"What did I say about the bloody Prophet?" he said, his voice low, sinister. She didn't miss the threat in his question. "Don't say one more word about it; no, don't even think about it bec—"

"But, Malfoy, you helped us! You're supposed to speak during the sodding parade! You—"

"Stop, Granger. Now."

"No." Her hands shot to her hips. Malfoy was acting like a child about this. It was time to re-enter reality, or at least the warped reality in which they currently resided, and if he refused, she was going to have to drag him into it kicking and screaming hexes in her direction. She was sorry he didn't have any friends here, but she wasn't sure whether Crabbe and Goyle counted as friends regardless. Did Malfoy have anyone he could consider a genuine friend, a person he could trust and rely on, or was his world populated with sycophants and cronies? She felt a brief tug on her chest that might have been sympathy, but she was growing to angry to pause and reflect.

"I'm not going to let you stay in denial about the future," Hermione announced. "You have to consider wha—"

"You're not going to _let_ me?" He swung his legs over the side of the tub and rose, sauntering over to the vanity with purposeful, almost predatory, steps. His teeth, now perfect and white, glimmered when he pulled back his lips in something resembling a snarl. "Let me make something clear. I don't need a Mudblood's permission to do anything. You dirt-blooded lot don't deserve your magic; to presume that you have any authority over _me_ whatsoever is—"

"I'm well versed in your feelings toward Muggle-borns, Malfoy," she snapped. "What's your plan then? Come on, you must have one. Let me guess..." She tapped her chin, inching closer to where he stood in front of the mirror. "Keep lying to yourself and hope it all goes away, close your eyes and expect that you'll be snug in the Slytherin dungeon next time you open them? I hate to break it to you, but that's not going to happen."

"Whatever plan I may or may not have is none of your sodding business. So if you'll piss off now—"

"I came in here to apologize, and you're telling me to piss off?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you." He ground his teeth together and nodded sharply toward the door, but Hermione wasn't done. He was so infuriating; it was as if her patience were being physically pulled from her body, a taut rope unraveling alongside with her level-headedness. Perhaps third year wasn't so far away after all.

Why had she let herself be swayed by Harry's words? Ron was right — Malfoy was Malfoy, and no matter what was written in a newspaper, he wasn't the man mentioned in it. Not yet. He was still arrogant, cold, cruel, and a thousand other horrid things Hermione could spend hours naming. She didn't know what the impetus of his redemption was or when it would occur, but she couldn't treat him delicately, couldn't waste her time trying to imagine the future Malfoy when the one in front of her was so set on isolation and alienation.

"No wonder not even the people in your own house like you," she said, shaking her head. "Do you have a single shred of human decency? You know, perhaps _The Prophet_ suffered a misprint, because I can't imagine you ever having enough morality to recognize right from wrong."

"And your side is the 'right' one in this scenario, I imagine?" he asked, expressionless.

"Well, my 'side' doesn't torture and kill innocent Muggles or aim to wipe out the entire population of Muggle-born witches and wizards," she said, digging her nails into her palms, her hands in fists. "So yes, I would say we have the moral high ground here."

"You think the view is so fucking simple from your high horse, do you?" he yelled, his indifference gone as he clicked his jaw. "You think there's right and there's wrong, and that's it? I expect you also think that people are either good or bad—"

"Maybe!" she shouted back, "but you're supposed to be different! You're supposed to ch—"

"For someone who claims to be so bloody smart, you really are narrow minded."

Hermione screwed her eyes shut and sucked in long, slow breaths to fight the urge to give him teeth so long they hit the tiled floor of the bathroom. When she opened them again, Malfoy's face was mere centimetres from hers, the circles under his eyes deep and an unbecoming shade of violet.

"The worst thing you can do is call someone good or bad," he whispered, his voice hoarse and breaths shallow. "Good, bad - those kinds of labels are too heavy for a person. Don't you get it, Granger? We're all just people, just trying to fucking survive."

"You talk about heavy labels…don't _you_ get it, Malfoy?" she asked, turning away from him to look in the mirror. She studied her reflection and could feel him doing the same over her shoulder. "Your entire life has been about labels," she murmured. "You consider yourself better than me because you're a pure-blood, and I'm a Mudblood. You think because you're a Slytherin, you're somehow more important than us lowly Gryffindors. Even your name — Malfoy. You drop it every chance you get because you believe it means something to people when it's really nothing but a glorified label. And now, it doesn't mean anything. Your father made sure of that—"

"Don't you dare talk about my father," he roared, grabbing her shoulder and spinning her around, forcing her to look at him. "You know _nothing_—"

"I know enough," she said, shoving his hand off. "I know he's in Azkaban. I was there when they captured him, but you knew that already, didn't you?"

Malfoy's face paled until it was almost translucent, and Hermione could have traced the spider veins running through his closed eyelids.

"Do you think the fact that he was in Slytherin keeps him warm at night?" she asked callously, knowing she was treading in dangerous territory but unable to stop herself. Screw compassion. Malfoy had proven to be unworthy of it more than once today and infinite times over the past six years.

His eyes snapped opened and blazed with unadulterated abhorrence. "I'm warning you, Mudblood—"

"And speaking of blood," she went on, "do you think being a pureblood makes any difference to the Dementors? Do you think they treat him nicer than the Mudbloods?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Do you think they'll give a shit about the Malfoy heritage when they're out sucking souls? That is, if your father even has a soul for them to take."

"REDUCTO!"

Hermione screamed as the glass of the mirror shattered behind her, the pieces flying into her skin and cutting her arms, neck, back…And it hurt. Merlin, it hurt, like a hundred little daggers were digging into her flesh, twisting deeper every time she tried to move. She watched as her blood streamed down from the places where she'd been sliced, dripping scarlet and thick onto the ivory countertop. The distinct iron-and-salt taste of blood caressed her tongue, and her head grew fuzzy, her vision blurred as the seconds ticked by in slow motion.

She heard a voice say, "Fuck! What did I do?"

And then it all went black.

* * *

**a/n: **Ahhh, the classic cliffhanger. Don't hate me...

P.S. Franklin - Thank you! Your review made me laugh. Honestly, I can't take Draco fanfiction seriously _unless_ he's a douche.

-Cam


	6. Pieces

**VI**

"**They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,**

**And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces."**

—**_Richard III_**

_5:47 P.M._

"Hermione? Hermione?"

"Gin — Ginny?"

"Thank Godric!" Hermione felt a pair of arms wrap around her neck and opened her eyes upon being released. She was greeted with the sight of a crying Ginny Weasley, whose white school shirt had a significant amount of red splattered across it. Hermione's gut churned at the thought that those stains came from her blood.

"What happened?" she asked, attempting to sit up but grimacing in pain.

"Lie back," Ginny instructed, stuffing another two pillows behind Hermione's head and reminding her eerily of Molly. "There. Right, so what happened — well, you looked awful, really bad. There was so much blood..." Ginny trembled. "In any case, we were lucky we were in the Room of Requirement. A book on healing spells happened to be on the bookshelf — I guess the room knows who's in it; I needed all the help I could get — and I was able to find one that worked to heal the cuts after Harry pulled out the glass. You shouldn't have any scars, except maybe the first one or two I tried. I sort of botched those," she confessed, her cheeks inflamed. "Sorry."

"Oh, Ginny, you have nothing to apologize for!" Hermione said, hugging her friend again. "Thank you so much. It couldn't have been pleasant work."

"Let's just say neither Harry nor I have a future as a Healer."

Hermione grinned. "I suppose Harry's sons have an accurate read on him then."

"Yeah, they do. It's so strange thinking about that," Ginny said, laughing.

"It is," Hermione agreed with a nod. "Where is Harry, by the way? And Ron?" She didn't even bother asking where _he_ was. She didn't care to know, only hoped that it was far away from the Room of Requirement, and she felt tears of white-hot rage prick her eyes. "So when can I murder Malfoy?" It was a breathless question as she fought to keep her traitorous tears at bay.

"Er, about that—" Harry's face came into focus, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"You already did it for me?"

"Well, no," he said, sitting carefully at the edge of the couch she was lying on.

"For Godric's sake, Harry, whatever it is you're skirting around, just spit it out!"

"Malfoy didn't cast that spell."

"WHAT?" She knew her jaw had gone slack, but she lost the ability to reattach it to her mouth. "But — who? Who else could have cast it?"

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," said Ron, running over to the couch. His face was bright red, and his eyes were watery. "I swear, I didn't mean to — well, I meant to cast it, but I was aiming for the ferret! I thought he was going to try to hurt you, and — really, I'm sorry! Please forgive me!"

"Ron, just — just let me process a minute, okay?" Hermione whispered, her throat constricting.

_Shit, shit, shit._

What was Malfoy doing to her? She'd been ready to strangle him this morning, hex him this afternoon, and now she was asking when she could _Avada _him. And he hadn't even been the one to shoot the glass-shattering spell! She knew she shouldn't have goaded him like she had in the first place; his father was a sensitive subject, and she'd said the absolute worst things she could think of in the heat of the argument.

Could Malfoy use an education on the truth about blood purity? Without a doubt. But Malfoy hadn't been the one only one in the wrong — she'd certainly been with him and was probably more at fault. God, she would probably have to apologize again! The only thing he was guilty of was hiding a piece of his future and getting angry when she confronted him about it, and she, like usual, had taken things too far. This time, her chances of getting her apology accepted were slim to none.

The worst part was she wouldn't even be able to blame him for it if he refused.

She didn't know why she even cared, why it bothered her that she wouldn't receive Malfoy's forgiveness, but it did, especially when she hadn't really secured it in the bathroom earlier, before it all went to hell.

"It-it's okay, Ron. You didn't mean to," she said softly, relieving some of the guilt shown in the slump of Ron's shoulders, the hang of his head. He straightened and let out a sigh.

"I'm really sorry," he mumbled, now more embarrassed than apologetic.

"Just don't go throwing spells around unless you're positive it's necessary, okay? I can take care of myself when it comes to Malfoy."

She couldn't decide whether that was the truth or a lie. Two days ago, she would have no doubt in her mind that it was an honest statement, but now... Now her behaviour could hardly be classified as cool, calm, _or _collected. She, Hermione Granger, was a mess.

"I won't."

She wondered whether she would be able to keep the same promise.

.

~#~

.

_6:06 P.M._

Draco had never hated anyone more than he hated Hermione Granger.

He hated her for being a Gryffindor.

He hated her for being a Mudblood.

But most of all? He hated her for being _her_.

Draco unclenched and clenched his fists, breathing shallowly through his nose as he remembered the mirror shattering, the raining glass that found refuge in Granger's skin. He'd just barely managed to avoid getting cut as well.

And then there was the blood to consider. It wasn't brown, wasn't dirty. Why the fuck hadn't it been dirty? It'd been everywhere too, in crimson streams and puddles all over the counter and the floor. Draco had watched as Weasley characteristically ran off with his tail between his gangly legs to get his sister and Potter rather than actually doing shit to help Granger. Sodding coward.

Draco didn't wait for Weasley to reappear with the others; instead, he'd fled as fast as his legs could carry him away from the bathroom in the Room of Requirement and found himself at the lake, where he'd slept for a few hours under the shade of a tree. It had been nice, the escape slipping into unconsciousness brought him, but all too soon, the autumnal chill in the evening air woke him and forced him to return the refuge provided by the castle.

All the way back, he was plagued by thoughts of _her._

_You consider yourself better than me because you're a pure-blood, and I'm a Mudblood._

She'd looked almost fragile — her reflection in the mirror. Breakable as its glass, but just as sharp as well. Her eyes were warm honey in colour like always, but there was an edge to them he had only seen once before — when she'd slapped him third year — and it was animalistic in nature, untamed and brutal. Only this time, she had attacked with her words instead of her hand.

And it was worse. Merlin, it was so much worse that he'd gladly have exchanged a hundred slaps just to be spared that conversation with the Mudblood. And that's who she was, Draco reminded himself. _What_ she was. She didn't deserve her magic; none of her kind did, and he tried to smile as he pictured a world without them, without _her_, in it.

He was grateful to be invisible to the students roaming the corridors, because he knew the smile he produced was about as sane as one of Peeves's unsettling grins.

_You think because you're a Slytherin, you're somehow more important than us lowly Gryffindors._

Draco spotted a bench on the edge of the hallway and sunk into it, shifting clumsily into a cross-legged position and rubbing some heat back into his arms. He leaned his head against the wall and studied the lurkers, analysing each one that passed on their way to dinner, which they were — he checked the face of the Goblin-made, silver watch he kept in his pocket — going on fifteen minutes late for.

Blue tie. Ravenclaw, then. Stocky build, dark hair, and the jutted chin and wrinkled nose that made him look like he had just smelled a pile of dragon dung. Typical snotty Ravenclaw.

Green scarves came next, two girls this time. Both had proud lines to their faces and walked with strength. Neither smiled or spoke, which only served to create a greater contrast to the Gryffindors that followed — a boy and girl who were laughing and smiling brilliantly, telling jokes Draco didn't understand. It was a disconcerting juxtaposition, the emerald and scarlet.

It felt like things were the same, and he didn't know why that disturbed him. Wasn't this a good thing, that Slytherins were what they had always been — prideful, powerful, and serious?

Perhaps the Slytherins he'd watch pass by in the hall had rattled him because he saw himself in them. He could scarcely recall the sound of his own laugh, and he broke into a grin so rarely now that it felt like he was stretching dormant muscles when he did, coaxing them out of an endless hibernation. He actually envied the Gryffindors in that sense, and he despised both them and himself for it.

Draco walked, hands curled into fists, into the Great Hall. He needed some sort of distraction, and his feet carried him to the Slytherin table. His usual place of dining didn't feel particularly comforting, but then again, the Mudblood _had_ been right about one thing. Friends were few and far between; the only people he could even think about categorizing as such were Pansy, who also happened to be insane and entirely too clingy for his tastes, Blaise Zabini, and Theo Nott, who he'd gotten to know better this year, seeing as Crabbe and Goyle didn't score high enough on their O.W.L.s to take Advanced Potions with Slughorn. Even Pansy, Zabini, and Nott weren't his _friends_ in the traditional sense; they knew nothing of his mission except that it was for the Dark Lord, nor had he shared his complicated feelings toward his family. Like usual, the other Slytherins remained in a limbo between acquaintance and friend, knowing enough but nowhere close to everything — they skimmed the surface of friendship, spoke of mostly good things like scraping the sugary, sweet icing off a cake.

Strangely enough, it had never bothered Draco before. He had been an only child, after all, and was used to being left alone, but with the impending war and his mission weighing on his shoulders, he saw the advantage of having friends to surround himself with. Friends are both shield and sword — protective and loyal, they defend and distract you from the problems in your life, and they're also willing to beat the shit out of anyone or anything that threatens you, which the Gryffindors had made all too clear earlier today.

Fuck them. Fuck _Granger._

Pinching the bridge of his nose in agitation, Draco paid no mind to where he was placing his still-freezing arse on the Slytherin bench in the Great Hall. He didn't care how at this point; he just wanted, _needed_, distraction from thinking of her.

"Hey, Jacob, you hear about Lysander and the Mudblood?" one of the female students whispered conspiratorially, a thin smile playing on her lips. "I say we teach both of them a lesson."

"Please, I bloody _saw_ it," Jacob said, sticking his tongue out in disgust. He flipped his too-long, chestnut hair out of his face and lowered his gravelly voice. "It seems she's forgotten her place in the gutter."

"And Lysander's forgotten that purebloods are supposed to be at the top," the girl put in. Her coal-coloured eyes shone with enmity.

"I have just the way to remind him," said Jacob, smirking.

Draco felt a rush of relief. Finally, something was making sense in this universe. Finally, some_one _was making sense. He didn't know who these students were, but he felt more akin to them in seconds than he ever had to the Gryffindors in all the years he'd known them. Blood purity still mattered nineteen years later.

Thank Salazar for that.

"What do you suggest?" asked the black-haired witch, baring large white teeth in a feral leer.

"I, for one, suggest the two of you shut the hell up."

Draco's stomach flipped with the recognition of Scorpius' voice. Sure enough, the young Malfoy was standing authoritatively in front of Jacob and his female companion, a harsh scowl on his face. James stood by his side, looking equally incensed.

"Was it something I said?" the girl asked with false naivety, inspecting her harshly chewed nails.

"Isn't it always, Flint?" Scorpius sneered. "You're Hogwarts' resident shit-stirrer, and you never seem to know when to shut your ugly trap."

"You better watch _your_ mouth, Scorpius, or—"

"You think any threat you pull out of your fat arse is going to scare me?" He edged closer to Flint, whom Draco assumed was the spawn of Marcus Flint, the former Slytherin Quidditch captain and one of the most uncouth people Draco had ever had the misfortune to meet. Scorpius' obvious disdain for Flint's daughter only served to make her doubly despicable, and his previous feeling of kinship was all but forgotten. "I'm a Malfoy—"

"Which doesn't mean what it used to," she spat.

Draco sharply took a breath.

_Even your name — Malfoy. You drop it every chance you get, because you believe it means something to people when it's really nothing but a glorified label_. _And now, it doesn't mean anything._

Granger's voice was swimming in his thoughts again, and his mental stability, as per usual when it came to her, took a nosedive into the deep end.

His head started throbbing.

"You're right," Scorpius agreed quietly, the menace pulsating through his voice. "It means _more _than it used to. I'm a _Malfoy_," he repeated, and the Flint girl recoiled. "My family is more powerful than ever, and you would do well not to forget that."

"Your father ruined your family's name when he—"

"Don't you _dare _talk about my father," growled Scorpius, the same phrase Draco had said to Granger only hours ago.

It was strange, hearing the words come from his own son and not knowing why he was saying them. Draco wondered whether Scorpius had suffered through his faults while terrorizing anyone who had the audacity to point them out.

Draco wondered whether he was Lucius.

And for one of the first times in his life, Draco wondered whether he wanted to be.

His meditations ended when Potter's kid got in Flint's face. "Especially when _yours _fought for Voldemort."

"Oh, that's rich. Bringing up something that happened nineteen years ago." Flint snorted, tossing her dark curtain of hair over her shoulder. She pretended to draw a lightning bolt-shaped scar on James Potter's forehead and cackled when he jerked away. "Your family still living in the past, James? Do you tell stories every night about how your dear old dad beat him with a damn Expelliarmus?"

"My dad—"

"Got lucky," she said, her voice a growl. "And you and your family walk around expecting everyone to kiss your feet for it. Well I'm—"

"A right bitch," said James.

"On _very_ thin ice," said Scorpius. "Almost as thin as the Black Lake's, I'd say," he mused, his every word calculated. "Wouldn't you, James?"

James nodded, a grin spreading on his face. "Definitely."

"You wouldn't dare!" she protested, her eyes bulging into ovals of anthracite.

"Oh I can assure you, Flint, that I would. Leave Lysander and his girlfriend alone." With that, Scorpius and James pivoted on their heels and headed for the Gryffindor table, leaving a stuttering Flint in their wake.

"You — you didn't even _try_ to defend me, you arsehole!" she shrieked hysterically, punching Jacob in the arm. "They basically said that they're going to drop me into the Black Lake! Do you have _any _idea what's in the lake? Merpeople! A giant squid!"

"What did you expect me to do, Violet? Don't you have Defence Against the Dark Arts with those two? I heard they're insanely good—"

"But you're a fifth year!" she argued, her voice growing shriller.

"Yeah, a fifth year who doesn't want to mess with the son of Draco Malfoy or the son of Harry Potter, and that's before you even mention their mums," he said, swishing his floppy hair. "Sorry, Vi."

"You suck!"

"Say hi to the giant squid for me," he said, waving as she stomped off.

"Well that was a bloody odd conversation." Draco's head snapped up. Potter stood against a column, arms crossed and glasses perched precariously on his slightly-crooked nose.

"What are you doing down here?" Draco asked without preamble, wary of Potter's appearance. Where Prince Potter went, other Gryffindors soon followed, including a bushy-haired, doe-eyed Gryffindor Draco had no intention of seeing as long as he could successfully avoid her.

"Hermione thinks you hate her."

"I would hope that she's known that for six years," said Draco. He smirked, but it soon slipped when Potter made his way to the bench and casually plopped down beside him.

"She feels terrible, and she knows she was wrong to say what she did."

"Granger admitting she was wrong about something?" Draco asked mockingly. "Someone better alert _The Prophet._"

To his surprise, Potter actually released a chuckle. "Yeah, well it tells you how much of wreck she is."

"She should be," said Draco.

Potter nodded absently, and the silence stretched for a minute before he opened his mouth again. "Did you know that Sirius Black was my godfather?"

"What the hell, Potter? Where did that come from?"

"It relates; I swear," he said, smiling a little and watching his hands as he cracked his knuckles.

"Well, go on. I don't have all night," Draco said, throwing up an arm in a brusque gesture. But he _did _have the entire night. He had an eternity if they never figured out how to get the hell out of this universe, which seemed to find a sick sort of amusement in screwing with his head, Potter's strange camaraderie being no exception.

"Sirius Black was my godfather." The Gryffindor's voice was distant and raspy, guarded like he was suppressing his emotions. "And he spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. After he escaped, the Ministry put a ten-thousand galleon price on his head and told everyone that he was evil, the worst wizard in the world after Voldemort. And they ate it up, let themselves be spoon fed their beliefs by the Ministry — hell, _I _even believed it at first — and he turned out to be one of the best men I've ever known."

"Does this sappy sodfest have a point, Potter?" Draco asked, his lips twitching in discomfort, though he wasn't quite sure why.

"He once told me," Potter said softly, his voice quivering. "That the world isn't separated into good people and Death Eaters." He paused and cleared his throat. "What you said to Hermione about labeling people good or bad...it's true. And I...shouldn't label you because there's a lot I don't know."

Draco's eyes narrowed into silver slits. "She told you, didn't she? About _The Prophet_ article?"

The Gryffindor shook his head. "Not directly, no...She asked for the blanket off her bed, and the paper sort of...rolled out of it. She was upset that I'd found it, said you should've been the one to tell."

So now Potter knew, and Granger, in spite of her anger, had kept his secret. In reality, it substantially ameliorated his shit situation, though he was curious whether Potter realized the extent of the accuracy of his Death Eater statement. At least Draco would no longer have to endure the torment of revealing what was written about his future self to the Gryffindors, assuming Potter had already shared the news with the others. Draco asked if he had.

"Yeah, you should have seen Ron's face. It was the same face he made when he realized his slug spell backfired."

Draco offered a half-smile. "I would have paid to see that."

"In all serious though, Malfoy," said Potter, sliding off the bench, "do you...do you think you can forgive Hermione?"

"I—" Draco squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. The whisper of a mirage begged to enter his mind, and he let it in, let in the image of Granger's face from the mirror — strands of hair sticking up like brown porcupine quills, a cut on her rosy bottom lip where she periodically gnawed it, a fairy dusting of freckles on her dainty nose, and those sodding golden eyes, scintillating with fierce determination. Draco didn't lift his lids when he answered.

"I think she should probably not ask me tonight."

* * *

**a/n: **Surprise! Was anyone suspecting that Ron was the one who cast the spell? I also hope the appearance of the next gen fit nicely... Either way, hope you liked the chap, and as always, please review!

xx Cam


	7. Hope

**VII**

**"True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings."**

**_—Richard III_**

_October 18, 2017, 8:01 A.M._

It was a minute after eight, and Hermione was unsurprisingly awake. Her moral compass had pointed everywhere but north as of late, yet somehow her body clock was in perfect working order.

She threw off her bedcovers and tiptoed into the kitchen, where she put a kettle of tea on the stove and began looking for something resembling breakfast food. The previous morning had, like their first few mornings here, been spent eavesdropping in the Great Hall, where even the lowest of whispers and slyest of glances had resulted in only petty rumours — _"I heard she got detention for a month!" "We snuck into an empty classroom last night." "He's asking a fourth year from Ravenclaw to Hogsmeade!"_ — completely irrelevant snippets of information. Hermione didn't partake in that sort of conversation even in her own time. She was suddenly reminded of Lavender and Parvati and grabbed the door to the pantry to keep herself steady.

She almost missed them — their relentless chatter, the overwhelming scent of hair products and perfumes, the cluttered copies of _Witch Weekly _in every nook and cranny of the dormitory (though they never could seem to find a single textbook) — and realized just how much she would miss not only them but everyone in her life if she couldn't figure out a way home. The Weasley family would be torn apart by their losses, of course, and her own parents — God, she couldn't bear to think of them, or she would turn into a crying mess.

_ It's fine. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be—_

"Granger."

_ Oh no._

"Malfoy," she practically whispered, ducking her head inside the food storage cabinet. Under the pretence of searching for something to eat, she fingered boxes of dried pasta, crackers, and — finally — cereal, taking much longer than was necessary in the hope that he would leave. She'd been atypically emotional for most of the morning, and she wasn't optimistic that her behaviour would change for the better with Malfoy around.

"Do you have anything to say to me?"

_ Yes. Possibly. _

"I — er — would you like some cereal?"

_Well that was bloody eloquent. A wonderful start to reconciliation._

Feeling heat begin to flare in her cheeks, she held the box of Coco Pops in front of her face to avoid making eye contact entirely. The conversation was, as expected, going terribly, and that was putting it mildly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I have no idea." She reluctantly lowered the box to the kitchen counter.

"What are those anyway?" Malfoy asked, and she almost believed that he cared to know the answer.

"You haven't been around in a couple days, so I'm not particularly keen to make small talk," Hermione said quietly, dumping her cereal into a bowl. The puffs of chocolate were chased by a splash of milk, and she shoved the mixture into her mouth with a spoon before she could say anything else idiotic. She wasn't quite sure what she _could _say that wouldn't be construed as either a pathetic attempt at an apology or a pathetic attempt to _avoid _apologies altogether. The time spent without Malfoy had undoubtedly been more peaceful — she was more uncomfortable after a minute or two with Malfoy than the whole of the time she'd spent with the Gryffindors — and yet, she'd continuously looked for him, anxiously awaiting the moment he'd come round to verbally assault her just as she'd done to him. She'd almost... looked forward to it. Not to any expression of cruelty; of course not that. But there was a moment she'd thought would come, a moment in which her words would take effect, and he would recognize the fallacious nature of his views on Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards as he slung insults at her simply because of her blood, of the way she was born. That moment, _that _epiphanic moment, was the reason she kept Harry's Marauder's Map by her side, watching Draco's dot pace in the library, the halls, the grounds. It was the reason she'd periodically watched the door, willing it to open to a cloud of black robes and shimmer of contrasting blonde hair. It was the reason she kept a small grain of hope that Malfoy would return, if not changed completely, at least meaningfully altered.

"Definitely not keen to make small talk," she repeated, bringing another spoonful of cereal to her mouth.

"Have it your way then." He stood and moved deliberately toward her, his silver eyes sharp and predatory, before swerving in the direction of the stove, where the tea was steaming from the kettle. Hermione watched silently as he poured two cups and nodded in silent acceptance when he offered one to her.

She stared at her tea for a moment, waiting for Malfoy to drink first.

"You must be joking," he said dryly, rolling his eyes. "If I were going to off you, I would be a hell of a lot more creative than poisoning your fucking Earl Grey."

"You have many ideas then?" she asked.

"Oh, thousands," he said, his tea still untouched. "But before you think you're too special, many also involve the Boy-Who-Won't-Die and his ginger lover."

"Do you spend all of your free time planning a triple homicide?"

"Of course not," he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. "Only when I need something to get me in an excellent mood."

They were silent for a moment, watching each other carefully for any sign of movement in the direction of their respective teacups. Hermione noticed that Draco had chosen green for himself and given her a particularly revolting shade of mauve, likely an intentional choice. Everything Malfoy did seemed intentional.

He leaned back on the counter behind him, his delicate teacup out of reach.

"You said you would prefer not to make small talk—"

"Your plans to kill me hardly qualify as _small talk_—"

"—so I suggest you employ some of that bravery you bloody Gryffindors are supposed to possess, and—"

"If you think that argument is going to work, you are mistaken—"

"Then I suppose you'll have to trust that I meant what I said about poisoning being a terrible waste of your murder," he said, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

_Fine, then._

Giving him the dirtiest and most disdainful look she could manage, Hermione lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip.

"Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?" asked Malfoy, finally drinking from his own cup. "Besides, a deep discussion isn't quite right without a spot of tea, is it?"

"I suppose not."

"That's what my mother said six years ago when she gave me the talk about how little witches and wizards are made."

Hermione choked on her drink, and tea dribbled down her chin and into her bowl, ruining her breakfast.

Malfoy smirked. "Well, well, Granger, no wonder my comment about the chastity belt upset you so."

"Shut up. You made me spoil my cereal."

"It isn't very fun when people make you do things you don't want to do, hm?"

"What are you referring to, Malfoy? I thought we were skipping this part of the conversation," Hermione said, her bowl clattering against her spoon as they simultaneously hit the bottom of the sink.

"I have a proposition." Malfoy grabbed the box of cereal and poured some into his hand before tentatively placing a few chocolate pieces on his tongue.

"Okay."

"You know, it isn't very intelligent of you to agree to my proposition before you've heard what it is."

"But I wasn't—"

"And yet, I'm glad you did." He threw another handful of Coco Pops into his mouth. "These Choco Poofs or whatever they're called are fairly decent, actually."

"Malfoy! Have you gone insane?"

"What would give you that impression?" he asked. "I'm simply trying a new tactic."

"A new—"

"Tactic, yes. To deal with all of you people." She narrowed her eyes and studied him. His hair was sticking up in white-blond tufts, his eyes were bloodshot and slightly crazed, and he had a small grin on his face.

"You didn't sleep last night."

"I haven't slept in a few nights. I was busy considering possible tactics." She shook her head and bit her lip to keep from smiling, though it also masked a hint of concern. Going without sleep was a terrible idea for anyone, and Malfoy without sleep was potentially disastrous.

"I don't understand you at all," Hermione said. "One second you're making jokes, and the next you're acting like a bloody lunatic."

"Would you prefer me to act like a bloody lunatic right now? I'm sure I can think of a few things to be angry with you about."

At this, she frowned. "And now I know exactly what you're referring to." Her voice deflated with a heaving sigh. This was it — her second apology to Malfoy in the span of only a few days. It could hardly go much worse than the first, but then again, Malfoy was one of the least predictable people she knew. She took one last sip of tea before speaking. "I am truly sorry for the way I spoke to you the other day. I was out of line—"

"Out of line? Granger, out of line was growing my teeth to the length of elephants' tusks. On Sunday, you fucking sprinted outside the lines and never looked back." He laughed, a guttural, sarcastic sound.

"I — I am so sorry," Hermione offered again, unsure what else she could say. It was and would never be good enough, but sorry was all there was.

"You're sorry? Oh, well bloody brilliant! Thank you, Salazar, because Granger has said she's sorry!"

"Malfoy, honestly—"

"Do you want to know the best of it, though? The best of it is that I couldn't get a single sodding word you said out of my head. Not the day you said them, not the past few days, not even last night." A vein throbbed in his forehead, blue and green pulsating against the white of his skin, and she realized that his planning most likely had to do with ways of dealing with _her_. "What you said — shit, Granger, it's like you've been saying it to me over and over again. Relentlessly."

"And did you come to any...conclusions?" she asked carefully, as Malfoy tugged at his already unkempt hair.

"I'm assuming you're really asking whether or not I had some sort of divine moment in which I realized that deep down, I've always thought the Order was right," he said snidely. "And that Potter is a swell bloke I'd be honoured to fight for."

Hermione released a breath through her nose. "Well I refuse to believe that you remain obdurate. If you were positive about your beliefs, you wouldn't be nearly as bothered about the things I said."

"Scorpius was defending Muggle-borns yesterday," Malfoy blurted, and Hermione realized two things — one, that he used the word Muggle-borns in place of Mudbloods, and two — Malfoy really was alone here if it was her he was choosing to tell.

"And how did you...feel about that?" she asked, imagining Malfoy lying on a couch, his head reclined on a fluffy pillow as he told her about his feelings. She would sit there, perched gracefully in a chair, a yellow notepad and pen in her hand as she meticulously scribbled everything he said and made all sorts of psychoanalytic observations. She'd never been to therapy herself, but a clear image formed in her head regardless.

"You know, If Trelawney had asked me to give a hundred different versions of the way the future would be, I never would have come up with this one," said Malfoy. "First off, Potter would have been dead in most of them." He smiled, his lips pressed tightly together.

_Subject employs sarcastic and joking manner as defence mechanism — also works to avoid the question._

"Like I said before, people can change. Maybe you did."

"But to change this much?" He laughed humourlessly. "I don't know, Granger. It's too much."

"I'm going to ask you something now, but I need you to promise not to get mad," Hermione said, picking at skin on her fingers.

"Fine."

"Growing up, were you...happy?" He looked at her, surprise etched across his features — eyes wide, brows up, mouth open.

"What do you — why would you ask me that?"

_Childhood experiences shape an individual as well as unconsciously influence actions._

"Well, I just thought..." She trailed off, collected herself, and started again. "I just thought that maybe, if you're happy here in the future, it could explain why you switched sides — to be happy." He was staring at her stonily, his mouth in a line and his eyes strangely blank, and she babbled on. "Wouldn't it be fascinating to see ourselves in this universe? Terrifying but fascinating. I mean, I know I—"

"Remember that proposition you agreed to earlier?" he cut in.

"I agreed to no such—"

"Granger," he said simply, and for some reason, she stopped. "Remember?"

"Yes," Hermione said.

"Forget about it. I've changed my mind." With that, he took his cup of tea and walked out of the Room of Requirement.

And she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

.

~#~

.

_8:39 A.M._

To say his conversation with Granger was not what Draco anticipated would be an understatement. The plan: to solidify a proposition in which Granger agreed to mutual avoidance, which they'd been practicing for the past few days. The result: exactly the opposite. She was more involved in his future, and thereby his present, than ever, since he'd felt the need to reveal Scorpius' crusade against blood supremacists.

It was her eyes, he decided. In the dull kitchen light, they'd reflected an ingenuousness that he wanted to preserve rather than break into splintered pieces of despair and hopelessness. He knew he'd taken away some of that naivety before — the first time he'd called her a Mudblood in second year came to mind — but now was different. Now he was the only Dark object submerged in a pool of Light, and he could feel it gradually dripping into his bloodstream. Every hour he didn't spend trying to destroy Potter, every minute he questioned his lifelong beliefs, every second Granger looked at him with hope in her eyes, was an hour, minute, second that light streamed into his shadowy soul and cobwebs were dusted out of his husk of a conscience.

He could trust her, couldn't he? No, that was impossible — her eyes. He could trust her eyes, and _that _was why he told her about Scorpius. It was incredible, really, that for such a know-it-all she hadn't once commented on the irony — that he, who had bullied those of impure blood for years, had a son who defended them, but that was Granger. He supposed the lightness she possessed manifested itself in more than just the spark in her eyes.

Perturbed by this train of thought, Draco decided to do some investigating. Things couldn't possibly get worse — he was already on Potter's side, which was a worst case scenario in itself. And yet...

_Alive,_ Draco reminded himself. _Alive, and not in Azkaban._ It was as much as he could have hoped for in a world where the Dark Lord had been defeated. _Scorpius. Wife. Alive._

Things weren't exactly tragic. What was tragic, however, was Neville Longbottom, who was in the process of tripping over his own feet and smashing a potted plant in the process.

"Oh no! So sorry!" he squeaked toward the students around him, most of whom were ignoring him and simply avoiding the mess. Longbottom, his still-pudgy face coloured pink, then attempted to brush the dirt back into a pot that was only partially intact.

Well, he hadn't changed a bit.

"Professor Longbottom? You okay?"

"Fine, just a little bubotuber accident," said Longbottom, smiling in his typical self-deprecating manner. "Don't get too close, though, or—"

"I'll break out in painful blisters," Scorpius finished. "I know."

"Right. It's easy to forget who your mum is," said the Herbology professor. "You look just like your dad."

Draco felt the side of his mouth lift in pride, but it drooped just as quickly as it rose. Longbottom hadn't lost his smile the entire time he was speaking, even when mentioning Draco himself. It couldn't be — he was friends with Longbottom? Or at least civil toward him, which was arguably just as much of a hit to his self-respect.

_Scorpius. Wife. Alive._ Draco pushed the mantra back to the forefront of his thoughts — for now, he needed to remember what was important and not concern himself with the details.

"She says hello, by the way — I got a letter a few days ago," Scorpius said, flicking his wand at the limp plant and disfigured pieces of clay, which immediately flew back together and solidified. The bubotuber plant, thick, black, and squirming like a slug, inserted itself into the fixed pot and was then sprinkled with the spilled dirt. "Dad too."

Longbottom beamed. "Well, I'm looking forward to seeing them soon. Are they still planning to come to Hogsmeade before Christmas break?"

"As far as I know." Scorpius picked up the mended plant and handed it to his professor, careful not to come into contact with any of its enormous pustules, which, when split open, emitted boil-causing, chartreuse liquid. "Hey, Professor, would you mind if I walked with you on your way to the greenhouses? I actually wanted to ask you about something."

"Sure, Scorp," said Longbottom, his breathing laboured and his forehead glistening with sweat. "I should probably, uh, Wingardium Leviosa this, shouldn't I?"

"Probably."

Longbottom put the plant down, raised his wand, and gave it a swish-and-flick, but it remained on the stone floor. He repeated the motion — swish-and-flick, swish-and-flick — but had no luck getting it in the air, even when saying the spell aloud.

"Stupid spell," he muttered. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

"I think it's your pronunciation if you don't mind me saying so," Scorpius said. "Here, try saying it like this — Levi-O-sa."

His professor nodded, a look of determination crossing his features. Draco backed away cautiously — Longbottom with a wand was bad enough without a pustule-causing plant involved.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Slowly but surely, the pot floated up. Longbottom, grinning, slapped Scorpius on the back. "Thanks!"

"Sure, Professor."

Draco returned to close proximity as the duo made their way toward the greenhouses, the buildings' glass shining with the cool light of autumn. No, but it wasn't just that. _Everything_ gleamed with a strange coldness, like the chilled atmosphere itself was casting a filmy greyness over the grounds. It felt unfamiliar, wrong, and out of place.

"A storm's coming, isn't it?" Scorpius asked, his hands in his pockets and his gaze far away.

The way Longbottom grimaced, Draco assumed the question had more than one connotation. "Yeah, looks that way," he said. "The Ministry's been trying to seem like they've got it together, the parade and monument and all, but the people who really know what's happening—"

"Like my dad."

"Like your dad," Longbottom agreed. "And your mum, and Harry, and most of the old Order members, really. We know that it's only a matter of time."

"Before the Death Eaters attack."

"Right again, as much as I wish you weren't."

No. _No_ — this couldn't be happening. But it had to be, didn't it?

Fucking hell.

Things were worse. They were a hundred, a _million_ times worse.

Draco could picture them clearly — the Death Eaters. He saw the black cloaks that trailed behind them like the River Styx, the silver skull masks that hid their equally-disturbing faces, but mostly he saw his family. Aunt Bellatrix, her hair hanging in thick, black wires down her back, her pointed teeth poking out from behind her lips as she sneered at her victims. His uncles — tall, dark, and lethal. His mother, her pale face a mask of indifference that concealed her fear. And his father...

Was Lucius even alive? He wasn't exactly the type to go gently, but Granger had mentioned Dementors, and Lucius receiving the Dementor's Kiss wasn't a particularly outlandish theory. But if he was alive (and retained any semblance of sanity or a soul), Draco knew he would serve the Dark, just like every other remaining Death Eater.

And they would be after Draco, all of them. A defected Death Eater didn't live to tell the tale. He must be the first exception, the first one to survive the switch to the Light, but now... Now, they would be determined that he learn the rule.

"Dad's worried," said Scorpius, and Draco didn't doubt it for a second. He could already feel the terror clawing its way into his body, slowly shredding his guts apart. "Mum too, but they wouldn't tell me anything all summer. They'd just whisper about it behind my back and smile these awful, fake smiles at me whenever I'd walk into the room. Still won't answer my questions in their letters."

"They just want to protect you, Scorp."

Scorpius rolled his eyes. "Yeah, bloody job well done there. I feel so protected having no knowledge whatsoever about the army of Death Eaters that wants to kill me."

"That's not fair—"

"No, Professor, what's not fair is having both of my parents hiding things from me," said Scorpius, kicking a group of pebbles down the path. "I could fight." At Longbottom's stern look, Scorpius tried again. "I could help, okay? I could, I don't know, do research, something _useful_."

Longbottom sighed, wiping his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "I could possibly — and do _not _tell them I planned this — I could possibly bring it up at Hogsmeade," he said, already appearing extremely uncomfortable with the idea.

"Really? Thank you so much, Professor." Scorpius leaned down and picked up the largest pebble he'd been kicking. Tossing it into the air, he pulled out his wand and destroyed it in a burst of red light. "Even if it's not much, I have to do _something_ to try to protect my family."

"I — I get that, Scorp, I do. But you have to trust that your parents know what they're doing." Longbottom sighed again and closed his eyes briefly. "Just try to have faith in their judgment."

"Faith," Scorpius scoffed, his blond hair glinting as he shook his head. "Right. And I expect you'll have me believe that everything is going to be okay?"

"I would, because it _will_ be okay. Probably not in the beginning, and there will be some definite rough patches in the middle," Longbottom said with a small chuckle. "But I believe it will be. You know, faith — that's the best weapon you'll ever have. It can never be taken away from you — it's infinite, unkillable. There's nothing your enemy will hate more, be more afraid of, than your faith." Swinging open the door to the first greenhouse, Longbottom turned back to offer Scorpius one last smile. "You really should interrupt me when I get going like that."

And as usual, Draco disagreed with the Gryffindor.

* * *

**a/n:** So as you may have noticed, I've decided to Brit-pick my way through the story because I'm weird and felt like it. On another note, thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chap - it was the most I've gotten on a single chapter so far! Please continue to R&amp;R - I expect you'll have feelings about this new development with the Death Eaters...

xx Cam


	8. Folly

**VIII**

**"If thou remember'st not the slightest folly**

**That ever love did make thee run into,**

**Thou hast not loved."**

**—As You Like It**

_October 18, 2017, 12:11 P.M._

"And you — you're sure about this?" Hermione asked, attempting to keep the scepticism out of her voice. "That the Death Eaters are rising again?"

"Yes, I'm bloody sure!" Malfoy was pacing, intermittently shoving his hands in his pockets and taking them out again, his long, pale fingers balled into fists. They were like piano keys, Hermione decided, as his voice faded into the background, overpowered by the pops and hisses of the fire and her own thoughts. They were narrow and white and — she could admit it — kind of mesmerising, lengthening and retracting, appearing and disappearing as they were into the black cloth of his trousers. "Are you listening to anything I'm saying?"

"Wh-what?"

"Brilliant," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "Come on, Granger, you're my best chance of getting out of here. You need to understand what the hell's going on!"

"Okay, just give me a minute." Hermione walked over to the nightstand next to her bed and drew from it parchment, ink, and a quill. "For notes," she explained to Malfoy, whose eyes were blazing with impatient fury.

"I know what that shit is for, but you're moving at the speed of one of Weasley's upchucked slugs," he said, his breath coming out in a huff. She sat next to him on the couch and curled her feet underneath her legs.

"Well, it's not as if we can do much about this at the moment, Malfoy," said Hermione. "In case you haven't noticed, no one can see or hear us!"

"Your support is fucking astounding—"

"_But_," she added, "I'll make notes about everything we've learned thus far, and then we can talk to the others and see if they've overheard anything important that we should add to the list."

"I tell you that the Death Eaters are reforming and planning to attack us, and you're scribbling out notes," Malfoy said, the words sounding like more of a question of disbelief than a request for clarification.

"How are we supposed to come up with a plan if we don't even know what we know?" Hermione asked, standing up and putting her hands on her hips in her usual defensive stance. Malfoy copied her motions, only instead, his arms were crossed.

"Well, I know that sodding notes aren't going to do shit—"

"And you know so much, do you? Here's what _I_ know! You are a complete prick—"

"—not a class, Granger! If we fail, that probably means we're going to die! And—"

"—never consider anyone's opinions but your own! That's downright stupid—"

"—chance to fix things before they go too far! Maybe this is the reason we were sent here! So we can fucking save ourselves and everyone else who needs saving!" Malfoy sucked in a breath, his chest heaving, and Hermione could only stare at him.

_Everyone else..._

Yes, some of his thoughts had to be motivated by self-preservation, but he'd said "everyone else," hadn't he? That included Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs, and of course, there were Muggle-borns in all three of those houses... He was going to join the Order, or he had to be considering it at the very least, hadn't he? Perhaps that was misconstruing his words, taking them too far (as she was admittedly prone to doing), but they certainly weren't meaningless. They meant _something_, and she realised with a pang that they meant something to _her_. She was invested, emotionally and irrevocably, in the redemption of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's mouth opened and closed more than once, and she felt like a fish searching for water as it flopped pathetically on a rocking boat. No sooner had that image entered her brain than she was swaying, her weight shifting from one side to the other in an imaginary current.

"Granger? You look terrible, not like that's unusual, but still..." Malfoy's voice got quieter, and he took a few tentative steps toward her before reaching out a hand — those fingers, those piano key fingers — slowly stretching it toward her face, and tipping up her chin. "You're not going to vomit on me, are you?"

"Do you play the piano?" Hermione asked before she could register that her mouth was even open again. Malfoy's eyes were boring into hers, and she could see tiny bits of dark blue in the grey irises, like a painter's afterthought: _just a bit more colour..._

"Do I what?" he asked, his hand still on her chin. His fingers were warmer than she imagined them, and oh God, had she really thought about what they would feel like? She supposed she must have, somewhere between Beethoven and Rubinstein, because this was definitely not what she expected — they were warm and soft, and it was almost like there was a current running through them, its electricity turning her veins to wires.

"I, um, I can't imagine you would," she said, heat flaring in her cheeks as she jerked her head away. As his hand fell to his side, she felt an embarrassingly strong streak of loss shimmy its way through her gut. "It's a Muggle thing."

"Right," said Malfoy. "Then I suppose I wouldn't know."

"I'll just get started on the notes then," she said, not looking at him, knowing that her sentence would be punctuated by an uncomfortably long silence, which was the exact opposite of what she needed. Silence, while smothering everything outside of you in a thick coat of nothingness, amplifies every thought that crosses your mind, every breath you take in, every thump of your heart. It's a law of matter to fill up space, as much as possible, and it must be a law of human nature to attempt to fill up silence, to saturate the air with sound, even if you're the only one that can hear it. Humans, above all, really can't stand the idea of nothingness. So they compensate with the thoughts, the breaths, and the beats of their hearts, all of which crescendo until it's not silent anymore, not even close.

Hermione's own heart was beating like hummingbirds' wings, and Merlin, she wasn't really attracted to Malfoy, was she? That would be mad, Mundungus Fletcher mad, but the way her body had reacted to him... No. It was impossible (except she was a terrible liar, especially when it came to lying to herself).

"Granger?"

She jumped as a whir of outside noises re-entered her consciousness — the fire, the squeaks and scrapes of dishes as they magically washed themselves in the sink, Malfoy's slightly hoarse voice. "What?"

"You do need ink to write out those notes, don't you? Unless you're using invisible ink, in which case, do proceed," said Malfoy, sounding amused.

She looked down. Sure enough, all of the words she thought she'd written were unmistakably absent from the piece of parchment. "Oh."

Malfoy grinned, and she placed herself in full-blown denial mode, because there was no way, absolutely no way, she could find his pale, pointed face anything but hideous (except for it wasn't, not even a bit, not even at all). It was odd that the traces of Lucius Malfoy she saw in his son could be so physically similar and yet mould themselves into someone far less malicious, far less dark.

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? Her optimism regarding the younger Malfoy sprang from the fact that she never truly believed him to be his father. He'd been a bully, yes, but he'd never been evil, and where there was absence of evil, surely there was room for good.

Twenty minutes later, Malfoy was giving her an impatient look and drumming his fingers on the table, which was incredibly annoying because his fingers had begun this whole thing in the first place.

"What thing?" said Malfoy. Hermione thought she might actually throw up this time because she really had no idea as to how much of her internal monologue had been made external.

"What?" she asked, envisioning herself back on the high seas, her thoughts twisting together, tangling in a mess of jumbled seaweed. Maybe if she acted nonchalant, he'd drop it, leave her alone long enough for her to drown in her own misery in peace.

But this was Malfoy. He wasn't exactly the type to let things drop.

"You said — well, the first part was too quiet for me to hear, but then you said that my fingers had started this whole thing in the first place." He moved close enough for her to smell the apple on his breath. "What thing?"

"My inability to concentrate," she snapped, never having been more grateful for her quick wit.

She snatched up the parchment and quill, capped the ink bottle, and stomped over to her bed in a way that Malfoy couldn't mistake for anything other than a request for solitude.

"Testy," she heard him murmur, right before she slammed the door shut.

Though she no longer had to endure Malfoy's presence, now the silence was back, which meant her thoughts would be on overdrive. And those thoughts could potentially be about Malfoy.

Piano fingers. Blue flecks. Green apples.

Merlin, she needed to get out of here.

Apparently, the same idea occurred to Malfoy because she saw him slip out of the door of the makeshift flat just as she cracked open the one to the bedroom she shared with Ginny.

That morning, Harry had mentioned something about hitting the Quidditch pitch with Ginny and Ron so they wouldn't "get rusty" during their absence from reality, so Hermione headed that way after carefully counting to one hundred. She walked with a purpose, like she was on the verge of being late to Defence Against the Dark Arts class, because being left with her thoughts was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

"Al! Hey, wait up!" Hermione turned around when she heard Hugo's voice, only to find herself in front of Harry's younger son, the one that had previously been nameless. Al... She knew Harry well enough to suspect that it was short for Albus; after all, Harry grew up practically worshipping the man he saw as a grandfather.

Al gave Hugo a friendly nod in greeting, and their strides aligned as they walked practically shoulder to shoulder. It was almost uncanny how much they resembled Harry and Ron, and Hermione couldn't help but smile.

"Anything interesting happen in Potions?" asked Hugo.

Al shrugged.

"Figures," said Hugo. "That class is so boring. But you know what isn't boring?"

Again staying mute, Al quirked an eyebrow in lieu of asking aloud.

"Quidditch! Don't tell me you forgot we had practice," said Hugo, lightly shoving his shoulder against the dark haired boy's, who then drew his eyebrows together as if to say "fat chance." "Right," Hugo continued. "Aunt Ginny would Bat Bogey you if you ever missed it."

Aunt Ginny... Ginny would be Hugo's aunt regardless, but if the way Harry looked at the redhead was any indication, there was a strong possibility that the two had ended up together. Upon realising that Harry and Ginny would no doubt be curious as to the origins of her suspicions, Hermione whipped out a piece of parchment and a writing utensil from the bag she'd thought to bring and hastily recorded the dialogue she'd overheard thus far.

Al laughed and nodded in agreement to Hugo's joke, and Hermione wondered if he was always this quiet, if the night in Gryffindor had been some sort of personality anomaly. Perhaps he just had a sore throat today.

"Is she covering the Cannons match for _The Prophet_ next week?" Hugo asked.

His companion grimaced.

"Yeah, yeah. I know you don't like them, but they've got a decent squad this year, and the game is going to be intense!"

Al rolled his eyes as they left the castle, his feet lightly dragging on the grass as Hugo practically bounced with excitement.

"All right, so maybe they're bloody awful, and I enjoy watching the Cannons because of a certain Seeker on the team, but still. Is your mum writing about the match or not?"

Hermione gasped. So Ginny was definitely Al and James's mother, which meant that she was also definitely married to Harry. Well, Dean Thomas would be disappointed...

Falling a few steps behind the boys, Hermione began walking at a leisurely pace with a smile on her face. She was happy for her friends; she really was. At the same time, she was the only one who didn't know anything about her future other than she was still breathing. For all she knew, she was living alone with Crookshanks the third or fourth, quickly working her way toward "old hag" status. She was probably the kind of woman who talked to inanimate objects, grew a strange herb garden, and chased children off her property with a broomstick dusty from disuse. Refocusing her attention, Hermione quickened her pace to catch up with the two first years.

"Sweet! So she can get me Florence's autograph?" asked Hugo, his eyes glowing. "You're still her favourite child, aren't you? Owl her!"

At Al's prolonged muteness, Hugo began poking him in the side.

"Owl her! Owl her! Owl her!"

Al managed to slap Hugo's hands away and gave his cousin a warning glare.

"You're not as fun when you're managing your Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes intake, you know," said Hugo. "Last week in the common room, you were putting me in stitches with that Chatty Cathy stuff!"

Well, that explained why Al was so quiet today compared to the first night she'd seen him.

As they grew closer to the pitch, Hermione realised that Harry, Ron, and Ginny were most likely still there. Would their brooms appear to be soaring through the air without any occupants? Would the Quaffle and Bludgers the Room of Requirement had provided dart around the arena, seemingly moving of their own accord, or would they, like the Gryffindors themselves, be invisible to Hugo, Al, and the rest of the Hogwarts students?

She wasn't going to wait to find out. Breaking into a sprint, Hermione set her sights on the faint blob of the Quidditch pitch, the one dark spot breaking up the brightness of the sun. As she ran, she couldn't help but picture this as part of her future — her, dashing across expanses of grass, twigs snapping and leaves crunching under her feet, heart pounding, pupils dilating. And there would be a group of Death Eaters on her heels, their wands acting as weapons of the utmost lethality, and she would see flashes of green and wonder when one would hit her.

At least she could take comfort in knowing that for twenty-one years, none of them would.

Now, with Malfoy's new information, her life was once again a thing of uncertainty. Any or all of the Order members could be dead in a matter of months, days even. And the worst of it? She would have to learn of Harry's death, or Ron's, or Ginny's, or even her own, through other people, maybe even people who didn't know them at all, who were simply reporting the latest happenings in this strange world. Maybe she would hear about it from a Slytherin, a smug, little git, who told of it with beady eyes and smirking lips, who was bloody _ecstatic_ about it, about Harry, Ron, Ginny, or her being dead.

By the time she reached the pitch, her eyes were stinging (she knew why — it was fear spreading through her body like a disease, but she was going to blame it on the wind), and her hands were shaking with the atypical strain she'd put her body through. Her lungs were fit to burst, her breaths ridiculously heavy as they shuddered through her entire frame, and she was half convinced her bones were vibrating.

"Harry!" Hermione called, voice cracking on the second syllable. "Ron! Ginny!" She swiped at her eyes, attempting to erase any evidence of tears, and strained to discern three human-like shapes hidden in the blue of the sky. "Hugo and Al — oh right, you don't know who Al is; well, I guess you do, but — oh never mind! The point is — the point is—"

"You okay there, Hermione? Don't injure yourself."

"Harry," she sighed in exasperation, seeing the bemused expression on her dark-haired friend, who held a broom and golden snitch in his hands. "Thank Merlin. Where were you? I was calling for you—"

"More like screaming your bloody head off," said Ron, grinning, his red face shining with sweat and adrenaline.

"Really, Hermione, I think you might exceed even _my_ vocal talent," added Ginny.

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, I don't think so, Gin." The siblings shared a laugh, Ginny swatting at her brother's shoulder.

"Whatever, Weasel."

Ron's expression dropped to one of horror. "Bloody hell. Malfoy's rubbing off on you."

"Hardly," said Ginny, laughing lightly. "He can come up with decent nicknames and still be a complete git."

As Harry and Ron joined in Ginny's laughter, Hermione felt an unexpected urge to defend the source of their amusement. Malfoy may have remained something of a prat — she figured he always would be — but his arrogance was not what it once was; in the time they'd spent here, he'd become a person of uncertainty, torn between beliefs, between two different families.

Between past and future.

As the severance grew, so likely did his allegiance one way or the other. Soon, he would be left standing over an ever-growing cavern, his balance broken as the two worlds — light and dark — forever drifted apart. Would he have chosen by the time they returned to the present? Would he have taking a step in a single direction to keep away from the inevitable abyss that awaited indecision? There were, of course, the pushes and pulls of each path to be considered — on one side, the whispered threats of Lucius, as cold and harsh as the breath of the Dementors that now guarded him; on the other side, Scorpius, a boy who was friends with James Potter and supported Muggle-borns.

And what about her? Was she pushing, pulling, causing him to budge even a fraction of a centimetre? He would have to change eventually, wouldn't he? It was certain to happen considering what _The Prophet_ had revealed; it was only a matter of time now...

"Hermione?"

"Sorry, what?" Hermione asked, placing her eyes on the green pair in front of her.

"I was asking if you found out anything interesting while we were gone," said Harry, and then Hermione felt even worse because yes, she'd figured out some serious information, and Harry wasn't going to like the vast majority of it. Where was she supposed to start? The part where the Death Eaters were reforming and out for revenge? The part where Harry, his children, his wife (Ginny — that was a whole other revelation), and everyone else he cared about could possibly be killed any time now? Or perhaps the part where she could not stop thinking about Malfoy, no matter how hard she tried?

No, she should definitely not start there.

.

~#~

.

_7:12 P.M._

She'd tried to hide it. She really had. The parchment, though — the one she'd used to record Hugo and Al's conversation (well, Hugo's words and Al's gestures) — did not stay hidden long. With her luck, it was inevitable that someone would find it, scrunched up as it was in an empty can of tomato paste in the pantry.

She'd been _so_ proud of that hiding spot, too.

Thank Merlin for small mercies though, that it was Ginny who found it and not Ron, or worse, Malfoy. Instead it was Ginny, who took it upon herself to make dinner — spaghetti (Hermione's bloody horrid luck flaring up again). Hermione pleaded with her to pick something else, anything else, as there was no time to hide the parchment again, which only made Ginny all the more adamant about making her ridiculously complicated spaghetti dish.

Ginny then managed to push Hermione, who was once again protesting, out of the kitchen in an eerie interpretation of Mrs Weasley at the Burrow.

So Hermione paced, chewed her lip, paced some more, and waited for Ginny to drag her somewhere private to yell at her.

Ginny didn't disappoint.

Within a matter of minutes, Hermione's arm sported ugly, purple crescent moons where Ginny's fingernails had sunk into her flesh. Her back was rigid where she stood against the wall in the seventh floor corridor, and Hermione tasted warm metal in her mouth and knew that she'd ripped through the skin of her bottom lip with her teeth.

"Really, Hermione?" Ginny hissed, her eyes flashing, as she held up the roll of parchment and flung it in Hermione's face in accusation. "You tried to hide this from me?"

"It wasn't a good time," Hermione said pathetically, sucking on her bottom lip between sentences. "I was a bit out of my mind at the time, and I didn't want to—"

"What? Tell me that I'm alive? In case you hadn't noticed, I was the only one who hadn't heard a single thing about themselves! I was considering that I might be dead, and you—" Ginny broke off, an unbecoming shade of red colouring her cheeks. Her eyes filled with tears, and she covered her mouth with her hand to partially conceal a sob.

Oh, God, _Ginny_. Wasn't this just perfect? Hermione was so busy moaning and groaning about cats and herb gardens and dusty broomsticks that she hadn't even realised that Ginny didn't know anything at all. The guilt sunk into her stomach immediately, settling in about as comfortably as concrete.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, her voice still containing notes of feeble misery. "You're completely right. I — I'm a rubbish friend."

Ginny pursed her lips, and Hermione dropped her head, waiting for Ginny's voice to raise in pitch and volume, waiting for the bat-shaped bogeys to flap out of Ginny's wand and scratch her face to ribbons. Except neither of those things happened, and when Hermione looked up, Ginny was _smiling, _her smile so wide it was almost creepy.

"Ginny?"

"I was just thinking," said Ginny, "about when Harry saved my life in the Chamber of Secrets, all sweet and brave and strong. I was writing _Mrs Ginny Potter_ in my diary for...Merlin, I don't even want to admit how long. Years." She laughed, the sound like a bell tinkling in the corridor. "And I waited for him to notice me, but by the end of last year, I told myself it was time to give up, get into a real relationship instead of obsessing about one in my head. Guess I should've just gone ahead and planted one on him instead, huh?"

"Come again?"

"Keep up, Hermione! Harry — I should have given him a nice, long snog instead of waiting for him to make a move," said Ginny, shaking her head. "Girls don't have to wait for guys anymore! This is 1996! I mean—" Ginny broke off and grinned, most likely at the absurdity of it all, that they weren't in 1996, not even within two decades of it. "Well, whatever year it is, I'm sure feminism is alive, and hopefully it's thriving."

"You and Harry, and you — _plant one on him_?_ Feminism_?" Hermione's brain felt like it was sizzling, and she barely managed to get those words out. Ginny was speaking as if Hermione had told her the weather outside, not like she'd discovered the identity of her future husband. Maybe it was different because she knew him already, because it was Harry, and really, who wouldn't want to marry someone like Harry? Even the faults that got him in trouble were sometimes admirable — his unflinching optimism, blind trust, steadfast determination, bravery that sometimes tripped into recklessness — all of it.

"It's Harry, Hermione. Harry," Ginny repeated, confirming Hermione's theory. She said his name like it was an answer, a promise, and a declaration all in one, like _Harry_ was all of those things. Hermione waited for her to say more, for Ginny to explain how she could infuse so much beauty into a single word, but she didn't.

At midnight, Hermione was still awake. Dinner had been relatively normal (no Malfoy, semi-pleasant conversation, Ron sticking chopsticks up his nose), except for the way Ginny would sneak a glance at Harry every now and again from behind a fork twirled with spaghetti. And every glance was like her "_Harry_."

Hermione couldn't help but pick at her nails, tear apart her already-split ends, and reopen the cut on her bottom lip because what if...What if despite all of her knowledge, she could never learn what Ginny inherently seemed to know?

When Hermione went to bed, she'd hoped that sleep would catch her body quickly, smother her thoughts like the thick blanket covering her body.

Instead, she was awake, so she thought. She thought about Ginny and Harry and James and Al and Hugo and Lavender and Ron, which led to Quidditch and fast brooms and dusty brooms and old hags and ginger cats and gardens and aching loneliness and newspaper crosswords and The Daily Prophet and war memorials and Malfoy.

And he was the last thing she thought of before sleep finally chased her down.

* * *

**a/n:** Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I hope this one was enjoyable for you - most of my writing time is between midnight and 3 A.M. at this point, so I really have no idea what I've written until I read over it the next morning. The process can get problematic, but at least it's getting done, right?

Please R&amp;R!

xx Cam


	9. Singe

**IX**

"Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot

That it do singe yourself."

**—_Henry VIII_**

_October 19th, 2017 2:06 P.M._

"So shall I start calling you Mr Lavender Brown, then?"

"Shut up, Ferret Face."

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Simple question. Personally, I feel Weasel and Ferret are getting a bit stale, but if you're fine with them—"

"Is that supposed to be funny? Listen, if you think that we're going to be mates because of what was in the _Prophet_—"

Draco cut him off right there. This was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid — Weasley assuming that Draco wanted friendship from him just because of that bloody article. As if Draco would ever want anything from a Weasley — especially this Weasley, who was perhaps the most incompetent and idiotic of all of them. "Please, Mr _Brown_, I would rather spend time with your wife, and that's saying something."

"Hey—"

"In fact, I'd rather spend time with Longbottom and Lovegood. _Together_," Draco said, his tone patronising. "I assure you that my hatred for you is still very much intact."

Weasley sucked in a breath as if to yell, his cheeks bright red, but let it out in a sigh. "All right. Good."

"Great."

It had been like this for much of the day — Weasley clearly thought that Draco now held some sort of perverse desire for an Order buddy, and while Draco was doing his best to get the redhead to bugger off, thus far he'd been unsuccessful. Unfortunately, he was also loath to leave the Room of Requirement. It was so cold outside that the icy wind was filtering into the school by means of the cracks in the stonework, and Draco's earlier attempt to enjoy the snow had resulted in a miserable failure (suffice it to say that he hadn't seen a spot of black ice, and it had taken ages to get snow out of places where snow should never go).

The one positive thing to come out of the morning was the lack of any more news — Draco was traumatised enough by the information he'd already received and had no intention of gaining any intel for the rest of the day. Considering they had no plans for escaping this mindfuck, he figured one day of semi-sanity would be beneficial to his admittedly fragile mental health, even if he had to spend said day with Pothead and the Weasel. Also positive was the absence of Granger and the Weaselette, who were busy with another trip to the library, which would of course be unsuccessful if his luck in this dimension was anything to go by.

Weasley was watching the door again.

Draco wondered whether he did it consciously — the watching for Granger. Once she reached his line of vision, he hardly looked at her at all, but he reminded Draco of a lost puppy whenever she left the room. A lost, unintelligent, drooling puppy with very unfortunate colouring.

Draco decided it bothered him.

"Oi! Weasel," he said, tossing a pillow to get the redhead's attention.

"What is it now, Malfoy?"

"If you're going to marry Brown, I'd advise you to stop staring at Granger like _she's_ going to be Mrs Weasley," he said, keeping his tone as casual as possible. It's not like he actually cared that it was Granger — Weasley with a schoolgirl crush on anyone would be repulsive to watch. The fact that it was _her_ just made it a doubly horrifying situation for an innocent, helpless spectator such as himself. Really, Draco was looking out for his own well-being here; it was simply a preventative measure against biliousness and vast discomfort.

Apparently Weasley did not interpret his question the same way.

"Why do you care if I look at Hermione? She's my friend — I'm allowed to look at her," he snapped, his face turning red.

"My, someone's a little defensive."

"Yeah, well someone's a little too interested."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "It was one comment; however, if it's any comfort, I now greatly regret approaching the subject."

"Oh come off it, Malfoy. I know you two were here alone for hours yesterday."

"Are you insinuating—" Draco broke off in a dark bout of sarcastic laughter, unsure whether he could even make it through his next question without losing his breath. "Are you insinuating that I am fucking _Granger_?"

Draco heard Potter cough loudly from his place by the fireplace. Weasley's minuscule smirk dropped completely, and his ears went brick red. "I'm just saying you should watch the way _you_ look at her, too. I guess it doesn't really matter, though, considering she thinks you're the scum of the earth."

Draco's laughter died away, and his fingers itched to curl into fists, though he wasn't quite sure why. "She thinks _I_ am the scum of the earth, does she?"

"If you call her a Mudblood again, Malfoy, I swear—"

Draco was surprised to realise that the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "On the contrary, Weasley, I was referring to you. Tell me, are you still planning to take over as gamekeeper for that oversized oaf? Because you'll be waiting over twenty years—"

"Enough!" Potter finally spoke, one hand rubbing his forehead as the other grabbed the front of Weasley's robes. Potter pulled the black fabric toward him, and with a grunt, Weasley followed his motion, stumbling a few steps away from Draco.

"Never thought you would do anything useful, Potter, but I truly appreciate this small gesture of kindness," Draco said, smirking. "He smells like piss and poverty, neither of which I find particularly appealing."

"Shut up, you stupid fuck!"

Potter sighed and resumed massaging his forehead with one hand, all whilst clutching Weasley's robe so tightly his fingers turned white. "Ron, just calm down."

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?" It was amusing to watch them pace around the room — as soon as Weasley took a step, Potter would be forced to follow in order to maintain his grip. Whenever they came within a few feet of Draco, Potter tugged his companion in the opposite direction, but other than that, he simply allowed Weasley to drag him in any direction he pleased.

"You heard the Boy-Who-Cried," said Draco, nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen counter. "Clearly he's the one you should be taking emotional and behavioural advice from."

The next few events happened so quickly that Draco couldn't distinguish when one ended and another began. At some point, Potter must have released Weasley because Draco found himself on the floor with Weasley leaning over him, a mad grin on his face. Draco's head already pounded from the impact of hitting the ground, and his diaphragm felt as if it were sagging under Weasley's weight, but he was hardly going to grant either of the Gryffindors the satisfaction of conceding before the fight had truly begun.

"I will give you one chance to get off me, Weasley. One," said Draco, annunciating each word as crisply and deliberately as his lungs would allow.

"Fat chance, Malfoy!" said Weasley, his smile becoming additionally more manic by the second. He raised his arm behind his head and swung, and Draco could do nothing more than turn his head slightly to the side in an attempt to dodge the blow.

He could taste the blood almost instantly.

The raging throb in his head was gentle compared to his jaw, the ache of which seemed to build and burst like a firework before spreading all the way to his toes. His vision was blurry, but he could see spots of red and wondered whether it was blood on the floor or an unfocused view of Weasley's hair and Gryffindor robes.

Someone groaned loudly, a high-pitched keen, and it took Draco a moment to realise that the noise came from him. He sounded like a frightened, little boy experiencing the first modicum of pain — a scraped knee or a stubbed toe — and realising that the world could hurt: Pain was heavy; pain would one day weigh him down like a stone in his pocket.

_Pathetic._

There was a muggle who committed suicide like that once, wasn't there? She'd found the heaviest stone she could lift, stuffed it into her coat pocket, and walked straight into the river...

He wondered if she'd regretted it as she sunk down, down, down. He wondered if she'd tried to undo what her pain had done, if she'd allowed her fingers to stretch toward the light glimmering on the surface of the water even as her feet touched its mud-covered floor. He wondered what had been so unbearable that she'd let the current carry her to the deepest depths of death rather than going on, facing the next morning.

_Get up._

Draco would face the next morning. That was never the question — firstly, he quite liked living, and secondly, suicide took a certain kind of courage Draco knew he would never possess — no, the question was that of the stone. What was the pain that weighed him down so much in his current life that he would one day rip the stone free of his pocket? What was it that caused him to claw at the swirling surface of the water, choking on air as he finally broke it? Was it the Dark Lord?

Was it his father?

Even thinking the question felt like betrayal, but Draco found himself imagining a life without darkness anyway, a life without the caustic insults of his family members, the looming threat of his master, and the expectation of both of them that he would fill himself with this darkness, welcome it with open arms even.

A life in which he wouldn't have to murder an innocent old man (freedom; light was freedom).

_Fight back._

He had to admit it: Weasley could throw a punch.

Draco could tell, now, that the red he saw was splashes of blood, but he couldn't lift his hands, couldn't move because he was pinned to the ground. He thought he heard the door of the Room of Requirement open, and a harsh voice sounded across the room.

"What is going on here?"

A shuffling of feet reached Draco's ears. A gasp. Two.

"What did you do? MOVE!"

He eagerly sucked in air in relief as Weasley's weight left his chest. It only took a moment before her face swam in front of his, glimmering like he was in the river and she was the sun reaching through its depths to provide the smallest amount of warmth, to keep the water's inhabitants alive.

"Malfoy!" He felt a nervous hand on his shoulder, a gentle shake. "Malfoy? Can you hear me? I need to do some healing spells."

"Just don't try to fix my teeth, all right?" Draco managed to say, his voice hoarse, and Granger laughed lightly.

"I won't. I promise." She leaned in closer, close enough that he could have counted her freckles if he'd wanted to. He also could have sworn her eyes were glassy with tears, but that was probably either a trick of the light or his faulty vision. "Other features might need work, though," she continued, "and I'm certain I could make an excellent replica of Snape's nose."

He smirked slightly as she pulled out her wand and began mending his injuries.

"What were you thinking, Ronald?" she snapped, her eyes not leaving Draco's face as she worked.

"You should have heard what he was saying! It was—"

"What he was _saying_? You mean to tell me that you slammed him to the ground and then caused further injury because you couldn't take a couple of crude insults?"

"But Hermione—"

"But nothing! I am _ashamed_ of you, and you know better than to pull this type of—"

"He was talking about you!" At this outburst from Weasley, Granger's motions ceased, her wide eyes meeting Draco's in surprise.

"He what?" she asked, turning back to Weasley. Before he could answer, Draco began to speak — he couldn't risk Granger stopping the healing process. He was already feeling much improved, and he would not let Weasley ruin anything else today.

"It was nothing bad," he said quickly as Weasley snorted behind him. "Shocking, I know, but I had plenty of material from Weaselbee to keep me busy."

"Oh, right," said Granger softly, resuming waving her wand. "Well, I'm sure that by the end of the day, I'll have provided you with plenty of things you can ridicule me about."

"Undoubtedly," he agreed, his voice just as quiet.

"There. I'm finished." She stood, brushing off her robes and mumbling a quick spell to clean up the spilled blood. Draco slowly sat up but remained in the same spot, just watching her. It was odd. She hadn't even hesitated before running over to help him, to heal him even. And had she really reprimanded Weasley for punching him in the face? He'd assumed she'd wanted to do that herself for the past few days.

His father, his aunt, his Hogwarts house — all three pandered to the idea of compassion as a manifestation of human weakness, but he was finding the idea difficult to reconcile with the person he knew Granger to be.

"Granger," he called, just as she turned her back.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." She didn't have to turn around for him to see the small smile that appeared on her face, and for some inexplicable reason, that smile made him feel a little less like he was drowning.

.

~#~

.

2:55 P.M.

As she left the room, Hermione could feel her breathing hitch, and she stopped to lean against the wall at the top of the stairs. Her reaction had been ridiculous, mortifying even, and yet here she stood, her head in her hands and her breathing laboured as she pictured Malfoy's blood pooling on the floor, the black rose of a bruise blooming across his pale skin.

"Hermione?"

Her head snapped up as she heard Ron's voice.

"Ron! You startled me!"

"Sorry," he said, looking down at his hands, which were clasped in front of his stomach. "I was, uh, hoping we could talk."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "About?"

"A couple things. Malfoy first, I guess," said Ron. Her heart felt as if it leaped into her throat.

"What about him?"

"I know I was wrong to—"

"Oh, Ron, I overreacted with Malfoy earlier too; you saw the way I blew up at him and gave him those awful teeth," she said, relief flooding her system. It wasn't as if Ron could have known about her changing mindset regarding the Slytherin, but her heartbeat slowed nonetheless. "What was the other thing?"

"Me. Well," Ron said, laughing a little. "You and me. Both of us, really."

"I don't understand. What are you—"

"How could we not end up together?" he blurted. "How is it possible that I could get married to someone else? I mean—" Ron ran his hands through his hair, his eyes still on the floor. "Bloody hell. I'm rubbish at this—"

"Ron, stop! Just — just stop!" Hermione interjected, but Ron hardly appeared to register that she'd spoken.

"I mean, we've always expected it, haven't we? That I'll get with you eventually, and we'll start a family—"

"This is — I don't even know what you think this is accomplishing," Hermione said, her voice much louder to ensure that Ron stopped talking. Her hands shook in a mix of sadness and fury, and she lifted her eyes to the ceiling so Ron wouldn't see her blinking away tears. Unbelievable. _This_ was what she'd been waiting for since third year? _This_ was what everything — the stolen glances, the burning in her cheeks, the fluttering in her stomach, the sobbing alone in the bathroom, oh God, the sobbing — this was what everything got her? A pathetic excuse for a declaration of affection and an assumption that they would share a future when clearly her present self wasn't good enough. Her voice grew in volume even further as she turned back to face him. "Do you even _hear_ the words coming out of your mouth?" yelled Hermione. "You'll get with me _eventually_, like I'm some sort of back-up plan, some bint on the side for when you're finally either man enough or bored enough to ask me out?"

"NO! That's not what I—"

"But it is, Ron! It is _exactly_ what you are saying!"

"I would never call you a bint!"

Hermione shook her head. "I was not talking about a literal choice in vocabulary, Ronald, just the meaning behind it," she said, suddenly exhausted. Her body felt about a million years old and her heart even older.

He didn't get it. He never had.

"I deserve more than this," said Hermione, her voice as low as the blasts of wind outside. "I deserve more than being someone's second, or third, or God forbid, last choice."

"I'm not good enough for you then? Is that it?"

"No, that's not it." She sucked in a deep breath. How should she say this? How could she say this without breaking her own heart a little bit too, without the pieces of her that grew together with Ron being ripped away by the roots?

"Please, Hermione, if there's something you want me to say or do, I'll do it; I swear—"

"I don't want you to have to ask me what to say or do," she said quietly, meeting his light blue eyes. "I want you to say it. I want you to do it. I want _you_ to want to and not as a last resort — I'm so tired of being your last resort."

Ron looked crestfallen. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying we're not supposed to be together. It's obviously not supposed to happen. I—" Hermione was crying in earnest now, which she couldn't internally berate herself for — she was cutting away portions of the hopes and dreams she'd held for years, and it felt like cutting away an extension of herself. She wasn't naive enough to believe that she would be the same person without having had Ron in her life, and it made it doubly hard to say the words she was saying now. "I'm sorry, Ron, but this isn't what love and happiness look like. Not for either of us, now or in the future."

Ron took a few steps away from her, heading back to the Room of Requirement. "I...I understand. You're always right, and I guess you are now too," he said, his words scratchy and his eyes red and watery. "And I'm sure I'll accept it one day. I just... I thought..."

"I know. I know. So did I."

* * *

**a/n: **Sorry Ronmione shippers (if there are any of you here). I honestly see so many problems with that relationship, and while Hermione and Ron are of course great friends, I don't believe it could work out romantically between them, which I hopefully highlighted with the conversation I think they very much needed to have.

Any thoughts on the chapter? I hope you liked it, and I am so, so sorry it has been so long since my last update! I graduated, sang in my cousin's wedding, went to the beach, and started a new job, all in the span of a couple of weeks. It's been insane to say the least, but hopefully I'll be quicker next time! :))

xx Cam


	10. Company

**X**

**"...and yet, to say the truth, reason and**

**love keep little company together nowadays; the**

**more the pity that some honest neighbours will not**

**make them friends."**

**—A Midsummer Night's Dream**

_October 30th, 2017, 2:06 A.M._

"You know, sometimes I really miss practicing spells with Dumbledore's Army."

Draco rolled his eyes, exhausted and exasperated. "It is two o'clock in the morning, Granger. For the love of Salazar ju—"

"Well, forgive me if I'm craving a bit of nice nostalgia after spending hours with you," she snapped, opening the next book in her stack.

"Right because _I_ am the insufferable one who can't shut up."

"Please, you've been whining the entire time we've been in the library—"

"And in addition to your incessant babbling, you have been chewing on your lip and your Muggle _pen_, which is even more disgusting—"

"—making matters worse with your constant moaning about how _tired_ you—"

"—descended from beavers, I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest—"

"—all bloody tired!" Granger finished, knocking over the entire, carefully arranged pile of her Muggle utensils, which Draco could tell only from sound. It was pitch black in the library with the exception of the small circles of light provided by their wands as they read on time travel and mysterious fogs for what felt like the hundredth time. The clatter of the pens, pencils, and highlighters scattering on the floor, however, was unmistakable.

"With _that_ coordination, it's a wonder you survive the war," commented Draco, turning the first page of the book Granger had handed him ten minutes ago.

"Not as miraculous as _you_ surviving," she said snottily from under the table, where she was crawling on hands and knees, her wand guiding her vision.

"Meaning?"

"Obviously Voldemort and the Death Eaters will want you dead, like they do everyone on Harry's side, but you are one of the unique few who will be despised by both sides of the war." Her eyes appeared from over the edge of the table to narrow at him, two spots of gold shining in the darkness like coins in an otherwise empty vault. "I suppose your giant ego is somewhat justified; you really are _so very special_," she continued, her voice little more than a hiss. She disappeared as quickly as she came, ducking her head back under to continue searching for, Draco presumed, every last dropped object.

"So to review, you have now admitted that I am unique, special, and miraculous." He flicked an eraser off the table just as she tossed up a pair of pens.

There was an audible huff of breath. "God, you are such a pr—"

"No need to finish that sentence, Granger; I think you've troubled yourself with enough compliments directed toward me already. You don't want anyone thinking you're a sycophant, now do you?"

"I hate you!"

Draco lowered his own head to meet her eyes under the table. "No, you don't, but you are tired and irritable and have subsequently chosen to take it out on me." He waved his wand over the remaining writing utensils, and they arranged themselves into the obnoxiously organised pile that had stood prior to Granger's display of clumsiness. Passing his light over the table, he saw that everything was categorised by both type and colour — typical Granger.

He waited, expecting that she would emerge from her spot on the ground, but she continued to sit, motionless except for a distinct shake to her shoulders.

"Oh fucking hell—"

She let out a sob, her voice muffled by the hands covering her face. "It's just that it's been more than two weeks, and we've gotten _nowh_—"

"Yes, well your sodding tears are incredibly helpful—"

Draco was cut off by another one of Granger's sobs resonating in the empty library. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and she began rocking back and forth in an even rhythm.

Back, forth, sob, back again, forward again, sob.

He didn't much like tears, nor did he know how to deal with them, and Granger's cries were especially loud and disconcerting. Frankly, he found the entire concept of crying nauseating (saltwater, mucus, and oil running down your face, and for what? It wouldn't repair whatever damage had caused the tears in the first place), but he convinced himself that dealing with it would be better than letting Granger's pitiful, choked noises peter out on their own, a decision that would likely take far more time than he was willing to spend listening.

"All right, just...just go through everything we've tried," he suggested, grudgingly lowering his body to join hers on the cold, stone floor. "In chronological order."

Perhaps thinking through their situation logically rather than emotionally would put an end to the horror of Granger's breakdown. Merlin knew he would be grateful, stuck as he was in the library until breakfast.

He didn't know how he'd allowed it to happen.

The door had been charmed shut, rendered completely impenetrable to both of them until the next morning — Granger's _brilliant_ idea of course. Apparently, a "satisfactory" amount of research and analysis constituted eight bloody hours, and she hadn't trusted anyone to stay unless they had no other choice — shocking, considering the hours were to be made up of ancient tomes and pages upon pages of words that grew no more helpful the additional times you read them.

And then there was _her_ to contend with. Honestly, she was the worst of the whole thing, anal and bossy as she was about every line he read, every note he made.

Potter and both Weasleys had already returned from hell wrecked and worn, nearly stumbling to their beds in the Room of Requirement after taking their respective turns.

Draco, as expected, wasn't dealing particularly well during his. The first two hours had been minimally torturous with the exception of Granger's chewing habits and foot tapping, but he was approaching the end of his rope — it felt like time itself was coiled around his neck, the loop pulling tight enough to dig under his flesh with every additional hour spent in the suffocating presence of the Gryffindor witch. Her influence was all over the library, and despite its enormity, she managed to make it feel cramped and contained, a prison within a prison.

Granger as prison warden — what a terrible image that was.

Lifting his silver watch out of his pocket, Draco checked the time for what was perhaps the thousandth time and was met with, as he'd been all of the others, a disappointing sight.

There were six more hours to go. _Six more..._

A pair of pale hands shone in the dim light of his wand as Granger pushed her abnormally puffy hair out of her face. Apparently satisfied, she hiccuped and nodded, though a few pieces still stuck out from behind her ears. "Okay, that's — okay, chronologically. Well, we figured out that this is the future, so naturally I read everything I could find on time travel in the library—"

"Naturally."

He could feel even more than see her scowl. "Don't patronise me; it's annoying."

"It's _amusing_, and I need something to keep me going for six mo—"

"Don't you dare say another word about it! Everyone else has taken their turn; y—"

"Yes, and what a bloody help they were! Probably passed out from boredom after ten min—"

"Because _you_ have been so much more useful?" she asked, snorting.

He sighed. "You've been through every book that mentions time travel — more than once — and you still haven't found shit. I don't see how this is—"

"It is ALL WE HAVE!" she shouted, her breathing erratic and her cheeks visibly flushed even in their limited light. "I've found nothing about that strange, swirling smoke and don't know what happened with the floors. We can't talk to people here, and we have no other material to go off! I can't — I don't know how—" Granger broke off, panting, her forehead shining with sweat. Her eyes frantically darted across the room, never lingering for more than a second. "I don't know what to do anymore, I d—"

"Fuck's sake," Draco said, his voice roughly the same volume as her heaving gasps of air. What did people say about panic attacks? Something about not telling the anxious person to calm down because it would only make the panic worse... He didn't exactly volunteer to be doing this, hacking through clouds of dust from disused books in the library, let alone dealing with this shit, but he was sure that comforting one panicked Granger was better than confronting the three Gryffindors that would await him if he _didn't_. "Granger," he sighed, "look at me, okay? Look at me."

To his utter surprise, she complied; silver met gold in a clash of cold and heat. As she stared at him with that mesmerising, honey gaze, he felt his own heart slow — somehow, her moment of terror must have affected him without him even noticing.

He supposed it wasn't impossible to understand — they'd been in close quarters long enough that they couldn't help but be connected, couldn't help but let their threads tangle in the expansive web of their past, present, and future (and it _was_ a web: nothing about time travel and alternate dimensions was linear; of that much he could be certain). Their triumphs, their failures — they were tied together in various knots and snares, dips and turns in the silky threads of their intertwined lives. He and Granger would likely be just as connected, Draco realised, in twenty-one years as they were now, just as connected at the dawn of the Death Eater revival as they were on the verge of war with The Dark Lord.

The idea didn't disturb him as much as he thought it would, and he felt a knot of self-hatred twist itself together in his stomach.

She was still looking at him, and he was washed in gold, in a gilded, paper thin veil that separated them from everything outside this moment. Her eyes... It was always her eyes.

"Draco," she whispered, softly, questioningly.

It was just a single word, barely even a breath, but it shattered whatever had previously filtered into the air and made it hum with energy, split the otherworldly atmosphere into innumerable pieces, snapped what had made his limbs into strings being tugged closer to her by an invisible hand.

Everything broke apart with the careful cadence she gave his name.

Granger could be little more than a centimetre or two away now — her golden eyes, her freckled nose, her pink lips — but his movement had been unconscious, as if he'd been separated from his body and was only now returning to it to find he was not where he'd started.

Settling back into himself, it took Draco a moment to recognise her expression as one of expectation — she'd made her move (his name tripping off her tongue like smooth honey, filling every molecule in the room with the gentle buzz of a murmured "_Draco_"), and it was his turn to respond.

"If you do not get out of my face in the following three seconds, the next thing that will be charmed shut is your mouth."

.

~#~

.

_3:33 A.M._

His bones did not feel like his own.

It was an effort to lift even a finger, as if everything from the rungs of his spine to his toes had been replaced with pure lead pipes — they creaked with any movement, keened in protest if he tried to shake away the metal-like constraints on his body. He wondered if he stayed still long enough whether he would rust away into dust (_for dust you are, and to dust you will return _— that was a Muggle saying wasn't it? He could taste it in his mouth, the dust, like he'd swallowed an entire desert and had a tongue made of sand).

He was aching from the cramped corner of the library he'd placed himself in to avoid any sort of contact with Granger. He could still see her — obviously her hair was difficult to miss from any distance — but he could no longer hear any noise she was making. The chewing, the tapping, and the little sighs she made when frustrated — he couldn't catch even a hint of them, though he could tell when her chest heaved and mouth opened that she was sighing.

Surprisingly, the silence made it far more difficult to concentrate. She'd made him accustomed to sound, forced him to adapt to her annoying habits, and now that they were across the room from one another, he wasn't sure he wanted them to go away.

No — distance. He had to keep his distance.

Close proximity was quickly proving his downfall; she'd obviously done something to fuck with his head, something neither visible nor explicable that nevertheless usurped his control of his own mind and body. He couldn't let her near him anymore. It was another disturbing factor in an already overwhelmingly long list, one that, of course, centred around the Dark Lord, whom he'd once been so eager to serve in his desperation to prove his worth.

The socket-less skull of the Dark Mark that scarred his arm still haunted him at night in dreams of long, black cloaks, wands pointed against his neck, and the sneering faces of his family members. The darkness against his pale skin had turned into something much different than he'd supposed; it no longer felt like a gift, a point of pride and power. Instead, it was a burden, the poisonous tongue of a snake flicking into his veins, spreading its fatal venom through his bloodstream.

Regardless of his loyalties, he fucking hated this Mark.

Then there was Scorpius to think of, the boy who held no prejudices against those of less than pure wizarding blood. The boy Draco would, in fact, one day raise to defend them. Through this and everything else Draco had learned already, it was abundantly clear that he would join The Order prior to the war against The Dark Lord, but it was still surreal, like looking into a mirror so cracked and distorted your reflection is hardly recognisable, hardly even you.

Perhaps that murky, indistinct version of himself could stand next to Potter and fight, but not now. Not yet.

Merlin, did he even _have_ a cause? His Mark repulsed him, but so did anyone with ginger hair (The Weasel and Weaselette were bad enough; he hadn't a clue how he would one day deal with the lot of them) — really all that was certain was his uncertainty.

And yet...

It could be enough. Accepting that he would change in the future could be enough.

.

~#~

.

_6:11 A.M._

It was agonising.

Hermione had assumed that spending eight hours with Ron would be the most awkward situation she'd have to endure in the library, but this was so much worse. She and Ron had got on _wonderfully_ compared to this, and those hours had been full of unpleasant silences and jokes and a general air of embarrassment.

There were two more hours to go, two more hours of Draco hiding in his own corner of the library with a pile of books under his feet (presumably so that she couldn't accuse him of not doing his part in the research). He hadn't spoken a word to her since_ the incident_ — a melodramatic name for a non-event, perhaps, but it seemed fitting. Or was it?

Incident made it sound almost shameful, and Hermione wasn't exactly _ashamed_. She was somewhere to the right of disappointed and left of devastated because it had been so much _more_ than an incident, so much _more_ than a passing connection that had dissipated like the misty, yellow fog of London after the rain.

In those seconds, there was no fog at all, nothing to retract into the dank depths of sewers or claw its way into the cracks of automobile windows whose owners forgot to roll them up. The moment, their moment, had been so full of crisp, crystal clarity that the sun could have illuminated every hidden nook of the library, every secret inscribed in its works, and it would have been no more transparent.

Keatsian — there, that was the word — it had been Keatsian. And just as Keats believed, the beauty of the anticipation, the expectation, was the very thing that made it worthwhile, more so even than the moment itself, which was destined to end in disappointment. At least, she was trying to convince herself that it would have ended in disappointment, that his lips would have felt like the rubbery, cold body of a fish, his face like the rough sand of a beach.

It would have been unimaginably terrible, right? (but his hand on her face that one afternoon had been feather-light, butter spread with a knife, deliberate). And _he_ had been the one to move toward her; _he_ had been the one to grow closer centimetre by centimetre until she could feel his breath on her lips.

Oh Merlin, this was a disaster.

She knew she had to confront it, too. He couldn't just sit there on the other side of the library and pretend it didn't happen because it _did_, and it _mattered_.

She was going to say something. She would. Eventually.

"I can feel you giving yourself a hernia from here, Granger."

"Shut up," she said, not realising that she'd even opened her mouth to speak.

"This is pointless, you know," Draco said, gesturing to the dozens of books she'd already read.

"I know."

He tossed the book he was looking at to the ground. "You said you missed practicing spells."

"Yes." Hermione knit her brows in confusion; she didn't think he'd been listening closely enough to remember. "I did say that. Why?"

"Well, our Defence Against the Dark Arts classes have been shoddy the past couple of years to say the least, so..." He cleared his throat. "I suppose I can't blame you for wanting to learn how to defend yourself."

"So you feel a bit behind then? In terms of knowing how to fend off attacks?" she asked, curious as to whether he would admit it.

"Don't patronise me; it's annoying," Draco said, mimicking her voice.

"It's _amusing_," she shot back, rolling her eyes dramatically in her own impersonation.

Draco stood, tall and thin against the faint streaks of light beginning to paint the sky. The pink and orange lengths of Aurora's fingers stretched toward him as if to wrap him tight and pull him up to the heavens. He was cast in an ethereal glow that gave him the appearance of a demigod.

His face, Hermione noticed, had lost much of its hardness; he was still the picture of proportion, but the lines were less harsh, his features less sharp. Even his expressions had lost some of their malice, and his tone often held only the softest edge.

"I likely have not learned an adequate amount of spells with which to defend myself," he said thoughtfully. "I am confident, however, that I could still beat the Weasel King, even with all his training in your little army last year."

Hermione's mouth nearly dropped open in surprise — it was as close as he would ever get to a request, and though most of their conversations had taken place in the form of arguments (she couldn't help it if she was the one to strike the match on his pool of gasoline), she recognised the underlying meaning of his words.

He wanted her to teach him what she knew.

It terrified her and thrilled her all at once, and she felt a tingle make its way up her spine.

"Okay," she said, smiling. "How about a little practice?"

.

~#~

.

_6:44 A.M._

"Pitiful! That piss-poor excuse for a defence spell couldn't fend off Longbottom!"

"I was trying to start with spells that are relatively simple—"

"Well, you succeeding in _insulting_ me with their simplicity—"

"—don't know your skill level, how am I supposed to—"

"—first year could do those! Come on, show me something good, Granger!"

She stopped mid-sentence — he looked so damn _eager_; whether it was founded in interest or the desire to prove himself better than the former members of Dumbledore's Army she couldn't be sure, but she found it oddly inspiring.

"You want to make things more interesting? Try this — _Reducto_!" One of the library tables blasted into tiny, fractured pieces of wood, hardly bigger than sawdust. Hermione remembered that Reducto was the spell Ron had used to break the mirror in the bathroom only a few days ago, but Ron was gone from her brain almost as soon as he'd entered it.

Draco's smirk was visible through the debris. "Now that's more like it. _Reducto_!"

Hermione couldn't help but smile too — he was proving a surprisingly good student; he paid careful attention, listened to every note she gave him, and, of course, was quite talented. She'd always known about his intelligence — it was ignorance, not stupidity, that was his downfall — but it was becoming all the more evident that he'd earned Outstandings on their O.W.L.s the previous year.

"I think you're ready for a real challenge," Hermione said, sitting on top of one of the few unbroken tables in the room. "The Patronus Charm."

"Frankly, I'd hoped to never see Dementors again, but I suppose that is unrealistic," said Draco, frowning. "The Patronus is used to discourage them from coming near me, correct?"

Hermione nodded. "Among other things. It can also be quite useful in delivering timely messages. Your Patronus has a tendency to... take on a life of its own, though it will always centre around protecting you."

Draco joined her on the table, swinging his long legs underneath it. "Well, I would very much like to know how to prevent Dementors from sucking out my soul — and before you make a painful attempt at a joke, yes, I'm quite sure I have one."

She laughed loudly in the empty room, the sound ricocheting off the rows and rows of books, finally circling back around in an echo so full it seemed it had soaked up the millions of words it had passed. "In that case, you'll need to think of a happy memory, the happiest one you have. It can be from any period in your life so long as it's joyful." She paused as Draco's face contorted in concentration, as if he were struggling to find something even worth remembering. After a few moments, he relaxed again, the wrinkles that had formed on his forehead smoothing completely (but now she could picture him with a creased forehead, with worry lines that showed his age, and it made her want to see the Draco of 2017 all the more desperately).

She coughed awkwardly, and her voice came out strained. "Do you have a memory in mind?"

"Yes." He didn't look at her when he answered.

Allowing silence to fall once more, Hermione took off her robe and transfigured it into the shape of a Dementor to give Draco a target. "When you're ready, concentrate fully on the memory, allow yourself to fill with happiness, and say _Expecto Patronum_."

"_Expecto Patronum_," she heard Draco mumble, like he was tasting out the words, seeing how they felt on his tongue. His feet hit the floor with a thud as he slid off the table, and he raised himself up to his full height upon facing her makeshift Dementor. Despite Draco's tall frame, the Dementor was the dominant figure, its spindly limbs reaching out as if to rip away the pieces of Draco that made him who he was — that's what a soul is, isn't it? The essence of you at your most pure. For Draco, she imagined that his Slytherin characteristics were quite dominant — cunning, ambition, intelligence — but he was also quite loyal, particularly to his family, which she assumed was the primary factor preventing him from stepping into the light. His parents, his aunt, his uncles — they were the ties that bound him to darkness, the shadows that towered over and darkened him, the hands that reached inside his chest and twisted his heart until its rhythm was unnatural, off beat.

"_Expecto Patronum_!"

Hermione released a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. His wand was still held aloft, but nothing had happened; not even a minuscule, curling wisp of white had emerged from its tip. She knew his pronunciation had been without error because she would have pointed it out immediately. There was only one logical explanation — the memory. It must be the memory that was the issue.

When she turned to tell Draco, he was already standing still, his expression expectant.

"So what was it?"

"You need a different memory. Whatever you chose wasn't strong enough."

He nodded silently, his worry lines appearing once more. The pacing began then, and Draco acquired such a look of such intensity that Hermione had to hide a laugh under the guise of a sneeze.

"What are y—"

"Trying to concentrate, Granger." Draco pivoted to face the Dementor, lifting his wand. "_Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum!_"

He kept going, again and again until he was breathless and appeared to be struggling to hold up his wand. As angry as he would surely become if she intervened, she decided to anyway — producing a Patronus was a taxing task, and it was evident that Draco was feeling the exhaustion.

"Okay," she said, returning the Dementor to the form of her robe and shrugging it on. "Let's take a break. The Patronus Charm is quite draining, so—"

"I wouldn't know that, would I? Seeing as I haven't actually produced one."

"But—"

"I'm going again. _Expecto Patronum! Expecto_—"

"You have to stop, Draco! You're going to hurt yourself—"

"—_Patronum!_ Stop being such a killjoy, Granger, honestly—"

She scoffed. "I'm looking out for your safety here! If you have an issue with th—"

"—babies cry in your presence? Or perhaps rainbows lose their colour—"

"Ridiculous! If you want to keep going, then fine, but don't blame me if—"

"Fantastic. In that case, feel free to either sod off or shut it." By this time, the sun had filled the room with light, and it shone off the sweat on Draco's brow, illuminated the deep circles that seemed to be permanently present under his eyes. "_Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patro...Patronum..._"

His voice faded into nothing; the next sound was the thumping of his body against the floor as he collapsed from the strain.

"Draco!" He could be no more than a dozen meters away, but it felt like hours before she reached his side, before she was placing a hand against his forehead (sweaty, warm, too warm), before she was saying his name over and over and hoping his eyes would flutter in response.

Silver. She saw two slits of silver.

"I can't do it, Granger," Draco said quietly, opening his eyes fully. His head was on her knee, and she continued softly stroking his hair, but he made no move to sit up. "I don't... I don't have an acceptable memory."

"It doesn't have to be traditionally happy. It can be quite unconventional; I know the first time Harry tried, he—"

"Would I tell you that I can't if there were any possibility of success?"

Her ministrations ceased as she looked down at him. He'd tortured her and her friends for years; he'd been a bully, a bigot, and a generally awful presence at Hogwarts, and yet, his words had pierced her heart like a hundred knives at once. "No, you wouldn't have."

Draco sighed. "Don't do the pathetic sympathy thing you do, and for fuck's sake, do not cry again."

"I'm not going to cry!"

Looking unconvinced, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. "Right."

"I'm not! Stop looking at me like that!" At her continued protestations, he began to laugh, something that came from deep in his throat and filled her with warmth despite the chill of the draughty library.

She'd never heard him laugh before.

When it ended, it felt like a flower dying in winter, like icy fractals splintering all the way from its petals to its roots (_her_ roots, _her_ bones, were becoming brittle; she might wilt with the loss of that laugh).

She felt him lift his head off her knee but didn't realise how close he was until their noses were nearly touching. He was gazing at her so intently she thought she might melt.

Earlier, when they had been this close, Draco had crept toward her so slowly that anyone more than a few meters away would have sworn to Merlin that he wasn't moving at all.

This time, he had all the subtlety of a freight train.

His hands wound into her hair within seconds; his mouth on hers tasted the way she imagined fire felt (intense, all-consuming, a burning sensation that spread from her insides out). Her mind told her to stop, not to place a hand against his cheek and push her body even tighter against his, that this could only end in disaster (freight train; he was a freight train), but her thoughts fizzled out when his tongue pushed into her mouth.

The destruction was inevitable, but she couldn't bring herself to stop it.

* * *

**A/N: **Wooooooooo! Drama! Romance! I'll be shocked if you don't have strong opinions on this one! Thanks for reading :)


	11. Fire

**XI**

"Fire that's closest kept burns most of all."

_**-Two Gentlemen of Verona**_

_October 30, 2017, 9:04 A.M._

"Oh God, Ginny, it was awful. Just awful." Hermione moaned, burying her head in her hands as she finished recounting the last eight hours.

Ginny had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout Hermione's narration, but now the redhead quirked a mischievous eyebrow.

"You mean the _snog _was awful, or just the aftermath? Because call me crazy, but I can't imagine Malfoy lacking in that department."

"This, _this, _is all you've gathered from the entire _hour _I've been speaking?" Hermione wasn't sure if she was more horrified or impressed by Ginny's consistent ability to latch on to only the most dramatic snippet of a conversation. Either way, she intended to lead Ginny far away from the subject of snogging because, fine, Hermione could admit that it hadn't been horrible — what had she compared him to in her head? Oh God, fire and a freight train; how mortifying — but it was the matter of what to do _post-_snog that now dominated her worries. She could feel the anxiety clipping through her brain cells like a pair of shears, pruning away all logic.

That was where Ginny was supposed to come in — she was meant to be the rational stream of thought that Hermione currently lacked, and thus far, she'd been terribly disappointing in her role.

"Can you just describe it a bit more, give me some of the dirty details? You practically skimmed over the best part!" Ginny's body arched toward Hermione as she spoke, eagerness evident in everything from her eyes to the way she sloped her spine.

"Ginny, _please._ I promise to give you more 'dirty details' or whatever you said, but first, you need to help me figure out how to deal with this." The first part was a lie — Hermione had no intention of speaking about the matter to Ginny (or anyone) ever again if possible — but what was a tiny, white lie when so much was at stake? Hermione knew considerably more about time travel than the average person after spending the past four nights in the library, but she still couldn't bring herself to risk alienating Draco so completely that he reverted back to his old self (and she was sure, _so sure, _that he was no longer the person he was before they arrived in this universe). For the first time in ages, she had hope for him. More to the point, she had faith in him, and she was terrified of the possibility that he would not fill the mould she had created for him over the past few weeks. And now, _now_, she may very well have cracked him, broken him so irrevocably that the mould was rendered useless.

"Fine," said Ginny, sighing. "But don't think you're going to get out of that promise."

Hermione attempted to make a obliging expression but figured she was unsuccessful when Ginny rolled her eyes.

"So obviously you two snogged, and then he said…wait, what did he say again?"

"What the fuck did I just do," Hermione whispered. And it wasn't what he said, exactly, that haunted and horrified her every second they were left in the library but _how _he said it (she still heard it echoing in her head, _his_ self-hatred squirming in _her_ gut).

"Right," said Ginny, oblivious to Hermione's inner terror. "Well, that's understandable, isn't it? I mean, he's been taught to hate everyone like you since he was in nappies, and his hate for you is particularly…special."

Hermione gave a slightly strained smile in spite of herself. "Yes, I suppose that's true, but—"

"Look, Hermione. I think you're freaking out too much about this. I mean, I've snogged a couple guys I probably shouldn't have, and it's not a big deal." Ginny paused a moment then burst out laughing as if she'd told herself a private joke. "Sorry, it's just…it _can _be a bit awkward when you run into one of them."

"Well that'll be easy to avoid considering we're possibly stuck here together. _Forever_."

Ginny certainly was not providing the clear insight Hermione had hoped she would. Unfortunately, there was no way she could go to anyone else about this. Ron, of course, was completely out of the question, and Harry was not likely to take it well, either. Yes, Harry had begun the pro-Draco movement, but Hermione knew there was a clear difference between Draco no longer being the enemy and Draco being a friend. The wounds of past years were still too fresh (and why wasn't this the case for _her?_ Why was she so willing to forget the way she'd cried when he'd called her Mudblood, the way he'd taunted the Muggle-borns when the Chamber of Secrets opened?). Harry's updated perception of Draco was not yet as developed as her own; he could still remember the disdainful sneer, hear the venomous insults and be angered by them, whereas Hermione could, if not forget, at least approach forgiveness.

So which was it: was she weak or just deluded? Which character default was it that allowed Draco to get under her skin so quickly?

"Look, Hermione," said Ginny, breaking Hermione's train of thought. "It's going to be uncomfortable to be around him for a while, and there's no getting around that." The redhead shrugged. "Give it a few days, and you'll be back to hating each other in no time."

"Right," said Hermione. "Of course, you're right." But more telling than her words was the way her heart jerked in protest. She didn't _want _Ginny to be right, even though every last minute spent in the library after their kiss was painfully silent, Hermione on one side of the room and Draco on the other, like the opposing poles of a magnet (and yet opposing poles eventually attract; they just can't help the way they're drawn to each other, the way they creep forward slowly then slam together in a burst of energy). No, she didn't want Ginny to be right.

Because maybe in the deepest recesses of her heart, she was hoping it would happen again.

.

~#~

.

_12:34 P.M._

It had been — Draco checked his watch — going on five hours since the _incident _with Granger, and he could still feel her lips pressed against his mouth. His own lips were bloody _tingling _with the sensation_. _Somehow, Granger had managed to become both a living presence and a ghostly one — the living version was easily avoidable, but he didn't have a shot in hell of escaping the ghostly hand caressing his cheek, the phantom tongue tracing his bottom lip, the invisible fingers tugging his hair to pull him closer… He could feel her all over him, yet she was nowhere in sight.

It was a fucking disaster.

The most logical thing to do, of course, would be to find another girl and snog her until Granger was only a distant and very tragic memory (ideally, he would forget about her altogether, but Draco realised the irrationality of that scenario). Being trapped in a place in which no other females could see him, however, created a bit of a problem, and in attempting to rid himself of the taste and feel of Granger, he'd rather stick his fingers down his throat than go anywhere near the Weaselette.

What was he supposed to do? Live with the phantom feel of Granger on his lips and skin for the rest of his life? He would explode — no, worse. He would eventually cross the brink of insanity and snog her again (eventually being, what? A year? No, fuck no, he couldn't last that long; he wasn't sure he could survive a month of this torture by proxy). And maybe he'd slam her against one of the stone walls of the Great Hall, taste the tea and lemon on her tongue, press against her so closely that he could describe every dip and curve of her body with his eyes closed… And maybe he would enjoy it. And maybe he'd enjoyed what had happened earlier in the library.

Shit. He had.

Draco rubbed his hands over his eyes (and wouldn't it just be a dream come true if he could rub away the way he'd come to see Granger, the way he couldn't _stop _seeing her). He no longer knew how he was supposed to feel, let alone how he actually felt. He wanted to be filled with a rage so dominant that it made his hands shake, but all he was sure of was a distinct wave of self-loathing approaching nausea. Merlin, he hated her.

But he hated himself more.

.

~#~

.

_6:44 P.M._

The Great Hall smelled like pumpkin and cinnamon, as it did during most of October, and Hermione couldn't help but smile as she saw Hagrid eagerly tuck into his piece of pumpkin pie. Left and right, students chattered about the upcoming Halloween festivities, the first years at the Gryffindor table appearing more apprehensive than excited.

James, Hugo, and Al were together, as Hermione had come to expect, and the rest of the table seemed to be listening into the trio's conversation.

"D'you remember Dad telling us that a troll was let into the castle his first year?" asked James, a mischievous smirk on his face.

Al rolled his eyes.

"Whoa, looks like _this_ first year isn't scared of any old troll, no way, no how," said James, knocking his elbow against his brother's shoulder as the students around them laughed. "Maybe Scorp and I'll let one in ourselves and see how you feel then, hm?"  
Giving James a withering glare, Al reached for another piece of pumpkin pie. As he attempted to add whipped cream to the top, James intervened, using his wand to lift the cream into the air and plant it onto Al's face in the form of a moustache. The table went wild with laughter, particularly Hugo, whose face turned as red as his hair.

"Well, James is a bit of a troublemaker, isn't he?"

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione turned around at the sound of her friend's voice. "I didn't notice you there! But to answer your question, yes he is, though that's hardly surprising, is it? I recall you breaking a few Hogwarts rules every now and then."

"Every now and then is an understatement," said Ron, joining them, "but no judgment, mate. I participated in most of that rule-breaking myself."

Hermione joined in on their laughter until remembering that she had been involved in her own troublemaking earlier today, and it wasn't the kind Harry and Ron would find amusing. She felt a crippling amount of guilt, a guilt so overwhelming it constricted her laughter and made her chest ache, but it wasn't what she'd done that made her feel this way, exactly, just the knowledge that she didn't entirely regret it. That she might even kiss him again if given the chance.

Just then, Hermione felt a change in the energy of the room — many of the students stopped talking, and the air came alive, almost buzzing with excitement.

A name flew across the room, carried through a susurrus of voices: "Harry Potter." James and Al stood, and Hermione turned to follow their stares.

She almost didn't believe her eyes.

"Bloody hell," Ron whispered to her left. "This is bizarre…But on the bright side, Harry, you don't look half bad."

It was different than seeing his picture in _The Prophet, _Hermione decided. As strange as it had been to see Harry with a few lines in his face and the distinct look of a father, this was infinitely stranger. This was seeing those lines in person, seeing Harry's age in person (and wasn't that _glorious_, being able to see Harry's age? Thirty-seven wasn't particularly old, but right here, right now, it felt ancient…And being on the brink of war with Voldemort in their own time, thirty-seven felt like immortality).

"Dad!" Al flew across the Great Hall and threw his skinny arms around Harry's neck. James lagged behind, offering Harry a much shorter hug, but his eyes exposed his joy at seeing his father.

"Hi, boys."

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry it's so short! I just wanted to be sure I got an update in over break... College has been kicking my butt (still shooting for that 4.0, though!)

I hope that all of my American readers have a lovely Thanksgiving (it's one of my very favorite days of the whole year) and that everyone else's day is also filled with love and happiness :)

-Cam

P.S. Thank you for the wonderful reviews of the last chapter! And to answer one of them, the T.S. Eliot reference was the yellow fog from "The Love Story of J. Alfred Prufrock."


	12. Pierce

**XII**

"How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell.

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well."

**— _King Lear_**

_October 30th, 2017, 6:49 P.M._

"Hermione, are you okay?"

"What?"

"You're crying," Ron said.

"Oh, I—I didn't even realize." As soon as he spoke, however, she knew it was true. There was an uncomfortable itchiness in her throat, and she felt the slow trickle of tears down her cheeks. She'd already known that Harry was alive in this year, of course, that he would live to the ripe old age of thirty-seven, but to see him with her own eyes, to see his flesh and blood and bone and the thin, lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead that had caused him so much pain already… It almost made the mess of this experience worth it, having that striking, clean jolt of relief and happiness in the midst of confusion.

The young Harry, her Harry, had not yet spoken but was instead gazing upon the touching scene in front of him with an expression equal parts hope and trepidation. She could hardly blame him; this was what he had always wanted — a family of his own. She remembered Harry telling her once, late at night in the Gryffindor Common Room, about the Mirror of Erised and what he'd seen in it in his first year at Hogwarts. She could picture him, a skinny, black-haired boy in need of a haircut, sitting cross-legged in front of the mirror for hours, smiling serenely at the family reflected beside him in the glass.

Though he'd never get his parents back, being a parent himself would suit Harry; she was sure of it. Cupboards under the stairs could become cobwebs in the back of his mind, and miserable days without adequate food or a modicum of affection could fade into the recesses of memory. He would be free of Little Whinging, free of his haughty, horse-faced aunt, his corpulent, blithering uncle, and their equally unscrupulous son. She never understood why Dumbledore had allowed Harry to remain in such a wretched, cold place until Harry told her that Lily's sacrifice protected him most effectively in the house that sat at Number Four, Privet Drive, where her blood still ran through the veins of her sister and child. In spite of the logical explanation, however, she'd yet to fully forgive Dumbledore for what he'd put Harry through. Her heart ached whenever she thought about how Harry had grown up, and she was filled with pride and affection when she considered how kind and pure-hearted Harry had turned out in spite of the Dursleys. She knew that the cheerlessness and cruelty, neglect, and derision that had filled Harry's days would never be present in the lives of his children.

Her thoughts faded as Hugo and a strawberry blonde girl who closely resembled him joined the older Harry, James, and Albus at the far end of the Gryffindor table. The girl, wearing Ravenclaw robes with a splatter of dried ketchup along the collar, threw her arms around Harry.

"If it isn't my dearest uncle, Harry James Potter!"

The older Harry laughed, ruffling the girl's curly hair. Most of the Great Hall continued to stare at him, some with unadulterated admiration, others with cautious interest, and a few with blatant dislike. "If it isn't my lovely niece, Rose Sybill Weasley!"

"Are you well?" she asked, her prim and proper tone betrayed by her wide grin.

"Very well, thank you," said her uncle, clearly indulging her practised manner of speaking. "Are you keeping your twin out of trouble?"

She glanced over at Hugo, and a conspiring look took over her face, which was dotted with freckles. "Between you and I, Uncle Harry," she whispered, "he has yet to anything wrong. I think Professor McGonagall may have scared him into following the rules."

"Don't speak too soon, Rose," said the older Harry, smiling. "He's too much like your father to have his toes in line for long." He glanced up at the professors' table, where Neville was waving enthusiastically, and McGonagall flashed him a brief but uncharacteristically warm smile. He returned their greetings, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Speaking of Professor McGonagall, I'm afraid I have to go speak to your Headmistress and Professor Longbottom now, but I promise I'll try to get back tomorrow to see you. Sound okay?"

Albus punched a fist in the air then high-fived with Hugo.

"Halloween with Uncle Harry, what a wonderful surprise!" said Rose, clapping her hands.

"You think we can get a troll in here, Dad?" James asked eagerly. Whether he was eager for acquiescence or a laugh, Hermione wasn't sure, but he received the latter from the entire group.

"That's one memory I'd rather not recreate, James," said Harry, still grinning broadly. "See you all soon, all right?"

James, Albus, Hugo, and Rose made sounds of agreement, Albus nodding the most enthusiastically of the bunch.

Hermione said nothing but immediately began following the older Harry away from the Gryffindor table and toward the exit of the Great Hall; the younger trailed behind her, wonder in his eyes. Ron, next to her, was grimacing.

"Rose _Sybill_ Weasley? As in…?"

"Trelawney, it must be. Lavender does respect and admire her, though for what I can't possibly understand," said Hermione.

"Wonder how she got me to agree to that one." Ron scratched his neck, considering. "You know, it does sound pretty good, actually, Rose Sybill. And my kid, a Ravenclaw!" He smiled, a look of glassy amazement similar to Harry's clouding his blue eyes.

Hermione shook her head at the boys, boys who deserved everything they had in this future and more, boys who undoubtedly would be as wonderful fathers as they were friends. With Harry, she'd been able to see it; in fact, she'd _felt _it, felt the love and admiration James and Albus had for their father. Even thirteen-year-old James, on the cusp of the most hyperconscious and hypersensitive time of childhood, had not yet trained his face to conceal his veneration for Harry from his peers.

"James and Albus look at you like you hang the moon, the sun, and the stars," she told her Harry as the older one exited the Great Hall, a significant look passing between him and Professor McGonagall as he walked out.

"It's—I—" Harry looked at her, seemingly helpless for adequate words to express what he'd witnessed. "It's more than I ever could have thought was…I mean, I never thought that I…"

"It's nothing more that you deserve," said Hermione, echoing her earlier thought and looping her arm through his.

"Come on, I don't deserve anything; I'm doing what anyone else would do in my—"

"Harry, you don't believe that," she cut him off. "There are plenty of people who would crack under the pressure in your situation, plenty who wouldn't be skilled enough to survive, plenty who would be fame-obsessed and egotistical, and—"

"All right, Hermione, I get it," said Harry, laughing, "and thank you. D'you…d'you think we'll find out what you're up to? I expect that whatever you're doing, you'll take over for McGonagall when she retires."

Hermione, too, wondered about her future occupation. She wasn't displeased at the thought of coming back to Hogwarts to teach and hoped that whatever position she held now was one in which she could make a positive difference in the wizarding world.

"I don't know, Harry. I hope so," she said, noticing that they'd reached the outside of McGonagall's office, the stone gargoyle guarding the stairs as always. The older Harry turned around just as McGonagall caught up, her pointed hat still perfectly symmetrical on her head despite her flustered mien and quick gait. Neville panted behind her, his face red.

"I take it, Potter," she said to her former student, "that you aren't here in the middle of the fall term to bring good news."

"No, Professor," he answered. "I'm afraid not."

.

~#~

.

_7:12 PM_

"So, anything you want to talk about?"

"For fuck's sake, I just walked in, and you're already—"

"Well, what happened is kind of a big deal!" The youngest Weasley had been waiting patiently for her chance to pester him; Draco could tell. He didn't know whether he was angrier with the real Granger, who'd evidently shared personal information that involved him with the Weaselette, or with the Granger in his head, the one tirelessly haunting and taunting him with honey eyes and soft, pliant lips. The latter returned in full force; she gazed at him intensely against the counter in the kitchenette, chewing her lip, then dissipated and reformed on a recliner by the fire. Everywhere he looked, she was there. She was relentless, even as a figment of his imagination…

"Hello? Malfoy?" The redhead raised an eyebrow and made a face strikingly similar to his mother's most pointed stare. It was jarring to put it mildly, seeing an expression so very like one he'd grown up with on someone else — hair red rather than white blonde, infinite freckles where there should be none. He shrugged off the thought of his mother and crossed his arms before he could begin reminiscing on either of his parents or anyone else he had waiting for him in the present. _Like the Dark Lord, _his mind whispered, his left forearm beginning to itch against his chest. The crossed arms made up a defensive stance, he knew, but he was feeling unsure of himself, out of control, as he did anytime he remembered the task he'd initially been so pleased to accept, so honoured to claim as his personal mission. He sighed, too exhaust to look at Ginny Weasley with anything more than mild contempt.

"I find it amusing that you think I'd discuss this with you."

"Look, I know we don't see eye to eye, but—"

"Really? I had the impression we were swell mates—"

"—Hermione is one of my best friends," she ploughed on, some of her own confidence appearing to evaporate upon hearing his increasingly acerbic tone. "Harry and Ron don't know anything, and—"

"And you won't be telling them shit—"

"Merlin, Malfoy, can't you let me talk for ten seconds without interrupting?" She clambered out of the armchair she'd been sitting in, the book in her lap — _Quidditch Through the Ages_ — tumbling to the wood floor with a thwap. Three chasers belonging to the Chudley Cannons zoomed in and out of a black and white photo, their names indistinguishable in the blurs of motion.

"Perhaps if you piqued my interest in the slightest with anything you said, Weasley," Draco said, watching the Quidditch players demonstrate a particularly complicated spiral move, "however, both you and your equally vapid brother have an established history of stating the obvious."

The redhead picked up the discarded book, slamming it shut and returning it to the chair. Draco found himself continuing to stare at the spot on the floor where it had lain. Granger's face hadn't yet appeared in its place, which meant it was as good a place as any to focus on.

"Give me a few questions then, and I'll leave you alone."

His head snapped up of its own accord. "It sounds as if you're under the delusion that I owe you an explanation."

The Gryffindor rolled her eyes, silent for a moment, before a cat-ate-the-canary grin spread across her face. "Fine, then," she said. "I'm going to my room, you know the one I share with _Hermione_. The one where she talks about her _innermost thoughts _with me…"

Draco felt something twist in his stomach but remained silent. She was dangling information in front of him, and it was as effective as dangling crystallized pineapple in front of Slughorn or a flesh-eating monster in front of that oaf, Hagrid. He bit down on his tongue to ensure he didn't answer the taunt, grimacing when he tasted the telltale saltiness of blood.

_I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam._

The memory came from nowhere, the words echoing in his head in his father's voice, and he remembered Lucius scolding him in Borgin and Burkes. That summer, he'd let it slip that he'd been second rate to a Mudblood in every class, and for Lucius, it was inexcusable. Draco had enjoyed years of exposure to magic — stars and planets and moons spiralling on his bedroom ceiling, which he could gaze and study before falling asleep; endless books to read in their massive library, books on mermaids and the Ministry, giants and goblins, potions and Patronuses; and of course, he'd had his mother and father to teach him about anything he wanted to know. To then allow someone of non-magical birth to overshadow him, well…it was a disgrace.

_Miss Granger…oh yes, Draco's told me all about you._

When his father met Granger that same day in Diagon Alley, Draco had been even more discomfited than usual by her confidence and success — she'd been there with her Muggle parents, who were still clueless and confused, being guided by the Weasleys of all people. The shame brought on by disabusing Lucius of his high expectations began to trail Draco like a shadow, one that grew claws strong enough to rip up his insides any time he saw Granger. A shadow that built itself up, one insult at a time, each barbed joke another black stitch in its shape.

_Filthy little Mudblood_.

Each word was a poke of the needle in and out of the black fabric of the shadow, each laugh that proceeded the insult an affirmation that cruelty was friend rather than foe, his shame a source of control. He'd let a crack of darkness in then. Now, he knew, that had been nothing compared to true, gaping blackness, a misery and hopelessness so dark it was like he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face, let alone a shadow trailing behind him like a cloak of power.

"Don't try to convince me you're not interested…"

He'd almost forgotten where he was. He touched his hair, half-convinced it would be slick with gel.

"About as interested as I'd be if you offered to divulge the 'innermost thoughts' of Longbottom's ugly toad." Despite his assertion that the youngest Weasley was as thick as her brother, he knew that she was more observant, certainly sharper than most people thought. Draco could only hope she wouldn't see right through him, see that the stream being let into him now was light rather than dark, that some of the things Granger told him about blood and family continued to reverberate in his skull like a couple of Bludgers.

"I don't believe you, not for a sec—"

"How surprising," said Draco, yawning. He murmured an Accio toward the Quidditch book and began to flip through its contents. _I've read worse_, Rita Skeeter's review had said. Merlin, that woman was awful. Sure, her articles on Potter during the Triwizard Tournament were a laugh, but her thirst for drama was insatiable, and she'd been a little too interested in his father's connections to the Ministry in the past.

"I was reading that, you wanker," said Ginny Weasley. He kept forgetting — or rather trying to forget — that she was present. "Do you exist to annoy people?"

"Oh yes, it's my life's ambition."

"Charming."

"I can be when I so choose," said Draco, skimming a passage about the formation of the Wigtown Wanderers. "You're simply not worth the trou—hey!"

She'd snatched the book out of his hands. "Feel free to bugger off so that I can make some food in peace. Until then, I'll be in my room."

Draco had the sinking feeling she might be more obnoxious than her brother.

.

~#~

.

_7:23 PM_

Hermione sat on the floor of Professor McGonagall's old Transfiguration office, chewing her bottom lip. Harry — the older Harry — had mentioned that there was another person coming to their meeting, so they'd had to switch rooms in order to open the Floo Network. The Headmistress's office didn't have a connected fireplace for safety reasons. Now, they sat waiting, McGonagall at the large, wooden desk and Harry in the seat in front of her, as if he'd been called into the office for a stern lecture. Neville stood behind McGonagall, looking anxious and glancing at the fireplace every few seconds.

"Looks like she's here," Neville said.

Hermione whipped her head around as green light burst in the fireplace, flames licking the bricks.

"So sorry I'm late, got caught up in an incident — some idiot performed an Entomorphis in broad daylight!" said a shadowy figure in the fireplace, shaking off residual Floo powder.

"Oh my god!" The voice she'd heard — that voice was hers. The woman — _her_, it was her — stepped fully into the light, and Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron, sitting on either side of her on the floor, nudged her with their elbows. "I _know_," she whispered.

She looked older, of course, and that was to be expected, but she also looked more put together, more sure of herself. Her hair had been twisted into a chignon, and though a few, frizzy strands stuck out here and there, it was relatively tame. She wore a sleek, Muggle-style, navy skirt suit and kitten heels. The look was both feminine and professional; it demanded respect.

"That's quite all right, Hermione," said McGonagall, Neville nodding behind her. "We've only been waiting a few minutes. Did everything get sorted with the Entomorphis mishap?"

"Oh yes," said her older self, tucking a few hairs behind her ear. Hermione noticed a diamond engagement ring and a wedding band on the woman's fourth finger, and her breath caught in her throat. She was married after all. "The wizard who performed the spell couldn't deny it; four Muggles had seen him, and of course, they'd noticed that the victim had grown pinchers and was scuttling round like a beetle."

"What would the Department of Magical Law Enforcement do without you, Hermione?"

"Let's hope you'll never have to find out, Harry." Everyone laughed. "I have to apologize again, I'm afraid," she added. "I can't stay for long."

"That's fine, you already know everything," said the older Harry, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper. "This is more for Professor McGonagall and Neville's sakes. I think people inside Hogwarts should be aware of what's going on."

"I couldn't agree more." Kitten heels clicked across the room, away from the fireplace. With a wave of her wand, Hermione's future self conjured two additional chairs out of thin air. She sank into one immediately; Neville moved out from behind McGonagall's desk to take the other. "The kids' safety has to be our first priority. Speaking of which, how's mine doing, Neville? He wasn't particularly happy when we dropped him off in September — we'd been secretive all summer, I'll admit."

"I think he's still right bitter about being kept in the dark, but he's happy." Neville smiled as if recalling a memory. "Very happy, in fact. Extremely smart too, of course, and he definitely has his dad's sense of humour."

McGonagall seconded Neville's compliments. "He's a wonderful, precocious boy; you needn't worry about him here."

Hermione's older self sighed. "Thank you, I needed to hear that. Well, he'll see his father and me soon enough and can complain all he wants about our reluctance to keep him updated on the current horrors of the world." She offered a wry smile. "Now, I think Harry wanted me to update you about what the Ministry's doing about the rising Death Eaters?"

McGonagall nodded. "That would be good."

"Well, I'm afraid things aren't going as we'd hoped." The chignon was falling out, and the more the older Hermione patted it, the worse it got. "At first, it seemed as if there were only a few former Voldemort supporters coming out of the woodwork, ones we couldn't nail at trial who'd started dabbling in Dark Arts again, buying a Dark object here and there." She swatted a hand; "dabbling in Dark Arts" did not seem to be a great concern compared to what had been faced already when it came to Voldemort and his followers. "And of course, we were keeping track of those who'd received ten or fifteen year sentences and had since been released, but we thought that the number of _actual_ Death Eaters left was quite small — Harry and his team did an incredible job seeking them out. We didn't realize that the number was growing until Charlie Weasley contacted us — he'd heard from an old friend in Eastern Europe that the Death Eaters were recruiting again. We're not sure who exactly is behind it, or how."

Neville clapped a hand over his mouth.

"I know, Neville, but unfortunately, it's not the former Death Eaters that are our biggest problem right now."

"How is that possible?" Neville's demeanour, while horrified a moment prior, had shifted into one of determination. His posture was ramrod straight, and his hands gripped the armrests of his chair as if he were restraining himself from leaping out of his sitting position. "What could be worse for the Ministry than Death Eaters?"

"Well, as you know, the we've had more and more difficulty keeping up with the Statue of Secrecy — Muggle technology is so advanced, what with camera phones, street cameras, satellite imagery, and everything else, that people are having to work round the clock Obliviating, destroying evidence, and on occasion, a few have resorted to using the Imperius, for which they've been reprimanded strongly. We've also created an entire department dedicated to ridding the Muggles' Internet of compromising videos and photos displaying magic." The thirty-seven year old Hermione stood from her chair and walked back to the fireplace, staring into the gaping hole in the brick from which she'd emerged only a few minutes prior. She chewed her bottom lip briefly, seemingly contemplating how much to reveal. Appearing to make a decision, she turned back toward the rest of the room, her arms crossed over her chest. "Even when we've successfully kept the Muggles in the dark, it's been somewhat problematic. We've had to let a couple minor workers go because they've used the Imperius with a little too much enthusiasm — thankfully, I handled that problem myself, and the information wasn't leaked. Only Aurors are authorized to perform the spell now."

McGonagall grimaced but said nothing. She drummed her fingers on her desk and looked at Hermione sharply from behind her rectangular glasses.

"Anyway," the older Hermione continued, picking at a spot of soot on her skirt, "there are quite a few witches and wizards displeased with their diminishing privacy and the increasing restrictions on using magic, not to mention my constant campaigning on behalf of formerly subjugated creatures like the house elves and centaurs. My growing role in the Ministry isn't helping quiet the criticism, of course—"

"You've been incredible," said Neville loyally.

"Thank you, Neville, but not everyone feels the same way, and I can't deny that we've made some mistakes. Kingsley's ready to step down, but I don't think it's time yet." The chignon had tumbled down almost completely with the amount of times she'd patted and rubbed her hands through it, and the soot-dusted skirt was looking no better. "We need to hold off until things calm down, and _The Prophet_ has shied away from its support of our administration." She sighed, appearing overworked, stressed, and exhausted. "That Rita Skeeter article from a couple of days ago has been awful for the entire Ministry; the amount of Howlers we've received… I know Harry's read it, as he's the one who brought it to me. Have either of you seen it?"

"I never even skim anything with that fear-mongering, gossip-churning woman's name on it," said McGonagall, a look of severe distaste on her face, "but I expect you'll have brought it."

"Of course."

McGonagall reached out and accepted a copy of Rita's recent article from _The Daily Prophet_; Neville took hold of a second copy. As they opened the pages of the newspapers with a snap, Hermione grabbed Harry and Ron's arms and pulled them off the ground.

"We need to read that article," she said, overwhelmed with all she'd heard thus far. Even when Draco had told her that there were Death Eaters rising again, she hadn't considered that anyone outside of Voldemort's former circle would be angry or dangerous, that there would be discord within the Ministry. Things were far worse than she'd imagined, far worse than the meagre remnants of Voldemort's army, chewed up and spit out, coming back for revenge.

"Hermione—" Harry looked at her with terror written on his face; she knew her expression wasn't one of comfort by the way his mouth snapped shut. Ron stood behind Neville, already reading, and she and Harry moved to look on over McGonagall's shoulder.

...

**_Mistrust of the Ministry Grows as Muggle Problems Loom Large_**

_When Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who nearly twenty years ago, the Wizarding World rejoiced, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. The-Boy-Who-Lived had always been something of a hero since that fateful night in Godric's Hollow, yet his triumph at the Battle of Hogwarts solidified his status as the saviour of our community. Potter is now in his tenth year as the Head of the Auror Department, while his main allies have also acquired significant, highbrow positions, mostly in the Ministry of Magic and at Hogwarts (Ron Weasley, as previously reported, is an exception — tired of living in his more famous, better-looking friend's shadow, perhaps, he now co-manages a joke shop). The most notable of these allies is Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione Granger, who has reformed the Ministry and Wizengamot through a series of new laws and treaties beginning mere months after the war, upon her graduation from Hogwarts in 1999. Clinging to the coattails of Potter's success, no doubt, Granger managed to pass a decree granting full rights to goblins, centaurs, werewolves, merpeople, house elves, and the like, and another creating positions in the Wizengamot for representatives of every species. Though her political moves passed relatively uncontested during her tenure in the Department of Magical Creatures, her decisions seem to be growing ever more reckless. Indeed, it's possible that Granger cares less for the safety of wizards than she does for the ability of werewolves to work in the open and house elves to receive paid vacation. Even the creatures themselves are questioning her methods: Winky, a house elf, claims, "I is never wanting to be free or wear clothes! I is still missing my master after these many years, oh yes!"_

_When I ran into him on his front lawn and asked about the growing dissatisfaction with the Potter generation-run Ministry, Harry Potter commented, "For the thousandth time, Rita, I'm not going to discuss the Ministry! How do you keep finding a way onto my property?" _

_I'm of the opinion that Mr. Potter's silence on the matter is due to his own personal misgivings regarding Granger's decisions, and with the speculation that she will be tapped as the next Minister for Magic, I fear things will only grow worse. An increasing number of witches and wizards have become frustrated by their diminishing personal safety — this is a result of both the growing role of beasts and non-magical beings in our society, as well as the growing surveillance and control of the Ministry in our every day lives. Ministry officials claim invasions of privacy are undertaken to preserve the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy in the era of Muggle devices called "cell phones" and the "Internet," which allow Muggles to share images of magical events to thousands of people around the world (What is this "Internet?" Could it be a Muggle weapon — why is the Ministry so afraid of its capabilities?). Ironically, the ever-increasing injustices against witches and wizards are rumoured to be the precursor to an even graver possibility: The doing away of the Statute of Secrecy altogether, and reintegration with the Muggle population. Granger, of course, is a Muggle-born and would likely adapt well; however, those with more magical family histories remember the persecution we suffered at the hands of non-magic folk during the 17th Century. Perhaps the thought of resurgent beheadings and execution by fire does not bother her (though only the most critical among us would suggest such callousness on her part)._

_One would think that Draco Malfoy, a pure-blood wizard himself, would remind our Head of Magical Law Enforcement of these past terrors and help ensure the protection of witches and wizards; however, he offered no words of comfort outside of Gringotts, his place of employment. "I won't be commenting on the Ministry except to say that I think its legislation over the past eighteen years has made the world a better place than it was before the war. Now would you stop spreading the rumour that I have a hidden pet basilisk? You know I despised Care of Magical Creatures."_

_Unfortunately Mr. Malfoy's attitude seems to be echoed among all former members of the Order of the Phoenix; the ardent support of Potter, Granger, and their carefully crafted Ministry stretches to Hogwarts, where Neville Longbottom teaches Herbology; St. Mungo's, where Neville's wife, Hannah, is Head Healer; and even _The Daily Prophet, _though of course I would never be so tactless as to name names within my own place of employment (though former Quidditch player and long, red hair should do the trick). It seems as if Potter and company have thought everything through (I must attribute this to Granger, as Potter, never lacking heart, frankly never was the brains of the group), and their spheres of influence cover every central conglomerate of power in the wizarding community._

_And yet, rumours of discord swirl, even, as previously mentioned, with regard to Harry Potter himself. On the streets, people have begun to protest the Ministry's moves, marching with signs reading "Protect Wizarding Rights" and "Wizards on Top," and a mystifying group called the New Order has risen to prominence among the upper echelons of the community. The New Order, as it stands now, is quite mysterious as to its aims other than firstly, to quell the domination of the Potter/Granger Ministry before it is too late, and secondly, to ensure that witches and wizards remain the top priority within the government. Despite its vague nature (even its leadership is shrouded in secrecy!), these two points have been enough for the New Order to amass widespread support, with many a witch and wizard bearing pins or brooches on their robes in solidarity. These take the shape of the "Unknown" rune, a faceless head with four protruding lines (traditionally, it represents the number seven). What will come of it, I cannot say; it would be in poor taste to admit to wanting to see Granger sacked._

_Any way one spins it, however, it seems that the Golden Age of the Golden Generation may be coming to an end._

_..._

Hermione looked up, expecting to be the first done reading, but McGonagall had finished already and was staring blankly at a bust of Merlin in the corner of the room. She looked worn and drained. Hermione too felt hollow, as if someone had spooned out her insides like a scoop of ice cream. There was even a metaphorical cherry on top: She'd gotten her wish and now knew her role in the wizarding world of the future, yet she was no longer sure she wanted to learn more about this version of it.

At her core, Hermione knew she should be panicked, heart racing and covered in a cold sweat, and she was sure she would be once everything had settled in, once the words had stopped humming about in her brain like tiny gnats. For now, she could focus only on bits and pieces of information at a time, and snatches of the article whipped through her consciousness without the context necessary to make sense of them.

_A mysterious rune…something about a basilisk…_

"Hermione? Hermione, you must have some ideas about this."

She shook her head, eyes searching for the source of the voice. "I—"

"Unfortunately, this New Order group has been incredibly smart and careful." Hermione looked up to see her future self pacing the room, trading off between rumpling her hair, now fully out of its neat chignon, and biting her lip. It was _her _the speaker had been addressing. "We'd heard nothing about it until there were already dozens of people sporting the brooches and pins. That number may be in the hundreds now, which means it will be quite difficult to figure out who the leadership is."

"We also don't know how much of a threat they are," said the older Harry, who, Hermione noticed for the first time, was sporting a deep gash on his right forearm, which had been shoddily healed. "The few demonstrations we've witnessed have been peaceful, and the goals of the organization itself are, like Rita wrote, vague."

"Insufferable woman, careless of consequences!" McGonagall burst out. "This article is going to continue to stir up serious trouble for you, and no doubt she'll be off printing more copies of _Dumbledore's Army: The Dark Side of the Demob_!"

"We can handle Rita," Harry assured her. His wound had begun oozing aqua pus, and he rolled his eyes, tugging the sleeve of his jumper back down. "She's been dying for an interview with me since that book was published, so I'm keeping her from writing any more inflammatory articles by bating her with an exclusive."

"Good thinking," said Neville. Ron was white-faced and silent behind him, seemingly frozen in place. Not even his eyes were moving; they were fixed steadily on the fireplace as if he expected the shadowy figures of the mysterious New Order to clamber out any second. "What can we do to help at Hogwarts?"

"Neville," said Harry, "you know we'd never take advantage of our positions to interfere at Hogwarts—"

"If it's for the protection of the stud—"

"Fudge and Umbridge tried mixing the Ministry and Hogwarts our fifth year, and if you'd like to reminisce on how that turned out, go ahead and visit Umbridge at Azkaban. What you _can_ do," continued Harry, "is stay alert. Aware. I won't ask you to betray your students' trust, but if you hear anything helpful concerning this New Order thing—"

"You'll be the first to know," said McGonagall firmly. "And for Godric's sake, get that repulsive arm of yours under control."

"Thank you, and I will," said Harry, chuckling lightly. "Oh, and same goes for the Death Eaters if they come up in conversation. If you hear something important, contact Hermione or me, no one else. We're not sure who we can trust right now." His amusement fully gone, Harry sighed and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Do you have any questions for either of us? This meeting was supposed to be more about _us _helping _you._"

"Well, as you know, Potter," said McGonagall, "I've been supportive of the changes you and Hermione have made in the Ministry, especially with granting rights to other creatures. You learned an important lesson from the wars about what happens when you discount and discredit historically downtrodden groups. However…" She paused, her mouth set in a grim line. "If you're serious about reintegration with Muggles—"

"Nothing's been decided," said the older Hermione, "which is what I've been trying to get across to everyone in the Ministry. It was merely a suggestion when we were discussing solutions to our growing stress and understaffing regarding the Statute of Secrecy, and I've developed some ideas about what it would entail, what it would look like in theory."

McGonagall continued to look sceptical.

"Okay, so there are some tentative plans! Nothing's happened, though, and nothing _will _happen yet."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Granger. You too, Potter."

Both Ministry workers stood and took a handful of Floo powder.

"We hope so too."

* * *

**a/n: **Ummmm so hi. It's been a while.

This chapter happened because _Cursed Child _happened, and I felt the need to defend Harry as a character - I completely disagreed with the way the play portrayed him as a parent. I mean, _yikes._ Also, wtf was up with play Ron being even flatter than movie Ron? If you liked it, that's awesome, but I was suuuuper unhappy with both the characterization and plot. Also the writing. Also everything.

General thoughts on the Trolley Witch scene are as follows: ? ? ? ? ?

If you would like to rant with me, my FF and Tumblr inboxes are always open!

*****ACTUALLY PERTINENT TO THE STORY***** It looks like I'm going darker than I initially intended; there will still be plenty of levity, but I wanted to have a story in the future that's more interesting than "look who's married now." I also rewrote and edited things in previous chapters because I don't remember where I was going with the time travel stuff (whoops), so I changed that chapter the most - it's the second one if you want to read it again. I've got a relatively solid plan in mind now, and I'm really, really hoping to get back to writing more. Luckily, I can guarantee my next update won't take as long as this one did! (aka almost two years...wow, I am truly the. effing. worst.)


	13. Honey

**XIII**

"They surfeited with honey and began

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little

More than a little is by much too much."

**— ****_Henry IV_**

_October 30th, 2017, 9:14 PM_

"Lay it all out for me again, just so I know I'm fully understanding everything."

Hermione's heart dropped. Recalling the conversation she, Harry, and Ron had overheard in McGonagall's office had been bad enough the first time. Still, she couldn't blame Ginny. It _was _confusing, especially since Rita's negative bias toward Hermione was about as subtle as Cormac McLaggen's cologne.

"Well," Hermione said slowly, "it sounds as if I got involved in the Ministry right after I graduated Hogwarts, and I passed a variety of laws to increase the rights of house elves, werewolves, merpeople, and other creatures in our society—"

"That's amazing!" said Ginny. "Wizards treat them so unfairly now, it's vile." The redhead sat on the floor in front of the fire, her long, pale legs splayed out in front of her like a pair of matches. Her face florid in eagerness, Ginny had hung on Hermione's every word as she'd recounted the events of the Great Hall and Transfiguration office. For most of the story, she'd appeared shocked and disturbed, but she'd interrupted now and again to offer Hermione words of encouragement and emotional succour just as she was doing now. Hermione hadn't realized how much she'd craved that support until she'd had Ginny's fiery zeal to contrast with Harry's stoicism and Ron's silent horror. Harry's acceptance of the imminent calamity made sense. His seemingly happy future had been a balloon blowing up in his chest, one he'd expected to pop at any moment, and she couldn't fault Ron for his inability to provide comfort when she wasn't sure how she needed to be comforted. Still, she was grateful for Ginny, and despite her reluctance to repeat the story — even a succinct version — it couldn't hurt that she would hear Ginny's encouragement a second time.

In her heart, though, she craved something else, didn't she? Words of support weren't what she needed at all; maybe she needed the truth poured over her head like a bucket of ice water, so she could shake and cry and _feel_ everything all at once. She was still overwhelmed by everything she'd learned, and though her emotions were under control for the time being, she'd only stuck a top on a simmering cauldron, and something — anger, sadness, fear — would boil over soon.

"I think I also added positions for these groups in the Wizengamot," Hermione said, "and it seems that most witches and wizards were okay with it after the war — I'm sure it passed with the goals of ensuring peace and breaking barriers and all that — but now they're tired of treating elves, centaurs, and everyone else as equals."

"How unfortunate," said Ginny, "that they want to take a step backwards after making such a huge leap forward. People can be such morons." Though Harry had been largely quiet while the two girls spoke, he'd looked at Ginny now and again with admiration and affection plain on his face. This time, he almost cracked a smile.

"Tell that to Rita Skeeter," said Hermione wryly, recalling the way Rita had insinuated that the Hermione of the future was a delusional, pernicious megalomaniac.

"There are quite a few things I'd like to say to Ms Skeeter." Ginny pursed her lips. "And quite a few Quick Quotes Quills I'd like to stick up her backside."

At this, Harry did smile, and Hermione outright laughed, though the sound was garbled as if she were laughing with her head submerged in a sink full of water. "I'd like to turn her back into a beetle," she said, remembering the vindication of seeing Skeeter scuttling up the side of a glass jar, tiny dots around her eyes in the shape of spectacles.

"So what else should we review? The New Order?"

"Yes," said Hermione. After listening to accounts of both groups, the New Order worried her more than the former Death Eaters who were lurking on shop corners, selling black market goods, or in Eastern Europe, trying to recruit again. War and politics were entirely different animals, and the latter seemed more dangerous in the world of the future. "The New Order seems to have the goal of politically dismantling the Ministry, ousting Harry and me, and going back to the pre-war tradition of witches and wizards playing a solo role in setting the social and political structure. The New Order's unsettling because of its mysteriousness; the leader or leaders of the group are enigmatic to the point of anonymity, and it also seems to be growing rapidly in popularity." Hermione sighed. "In other words, I'm rapidly _declining_ in popularity."

"I'd rather be shunned with you than universally loved without you," said Harry, his resolve incongruous with his voice, which was rather hoarse and cracking from disuse. Though he'd provided an opinion here and there as they'd walked back to the Room of Requirement, this was the first thing that Hermione had _needed _to hear from him.

"We all would," seconded Ginny. "And Rita knows it, which is why she had to try so hard to make you look bad."

"That cow," said Ron, breaking his silence, "wouldn't know the truth if it slapped her upside the head." Touched by the display of allegiance, brought on by events that had yet to occur, Hermione initiated a group hug, which no one else particularly fancied. Still, abandoning their hesitancy (and likely agreeing in another display of allegiance), Harry, Ron, and Ginny allowed her to pull them into the embrace, creating a tangle of limbs from which she initially had no desire to escape.

All too soon she started to suffocate.

It was too much — she was asking too much of everyone: Of her friends, who were getting skewered by the press and the public because of her decisions; of witches and wizards, who were used to pre-eminence in the political and social sphere; of Kingsley, no doubt, who was ready to leave his post but couldn't because of the perplexing, disquieting rise of the New Order; and of her family, God how had she forgotten? She had a husband and child, a son at Hogwarts, _and she had forgotten_.

"I — I need to get some air," she said, still in wrapped in limbs like a nail covered in coiled wire.

"Of course," said Ginny immediately. "If you need anything—"

_Air, air, air. _

Hermione was already slipping out of the room, away from verbal pats on the back and warm embraces. She may not be guilty of the political scheming and hunger for power that Rita implied, but she _was _guilty of being overly ambitious with her plans, making mistakes, and likely sacrificing time with her family for a career. What if she was a horrible mother? She'd needed Neville and McGonagall to give her reaffirmation that she hadn't screwed everything up by lying to her son. They'd said he was happy—

Hermione rounded the corner of the corridor and took the stairs, no idea where she was going, only that she needed to go, needed to breathe and think and be away from the room where her friends sat congregated around the fireplace. What kind of penance awaited her in the future, she could not know, but for right now, she was prepared to wallow in her misery, to sink into it like sinking into a warm bathtub, soaking up the guilt of things she had not yet done but was destined to do.

.

~#~

.

_9:45 PM_

Having witnessed the Gryffindors' entire lengthy exchange, Draco wasn't sure why he'd followed Granger out of the Room of Requirement. It wasn't as if he'd needed to learn more from her; he'd heard everything there was to hear, seen everything there was to see, but when she'd left, distraught and anxious, he'd gone after her.

It had been almost unconscious, instinctual. Maybe he could chalk it up to nature, an innate and fundamental element of the male species: _Protect_.

He'd waited until Potter and the two Weasleys had turned their back on the door and begun worriedly whispering about Granger's fragile mental state (they were ones to talk, honestly), and then crept into the seventh floor corridor. He saw her bushy head bob up and down as she trudged down the stairs, moving so slowly it was as if she were being pulled along by a couple of pixies. She wasn't going to notice his presence; he knew as much. He could turn around now, go back to the Room of Requirement and sit alone on his bed, contemplating everything he'd learned tonight. He could pretend that Granger's emotional turmoil didn't bother him in the slightest, that he could still discount and discredit her pain, or at least compartmentalize it enough to retain some semblance of apathy.

Her name left his lips before he'd finished thinking through the decision.

"Granger!"

She turned around, nearly stumbling down the stairs in her haste. He was only a couple of steps behind her, and soon, the staircase was in the midst of swinging across the castle.

"Where were you? I looked for you, I ne—" She broke off, pressing her hand to her mouth as if she could shove the beginning of the word back in. Her eyes were wide and wild.

"You what?" Ne—needed? No, that was impossible; she couldn't have been about to—

"I needed you to be there," she whispered, appearing horrified that she'd admitted it. Her cheeks flushed pink, and her eyes flicked to the floor. "They were so optimistic, and I thought that's what I wanted, and maybe it was at first, but I — I needed someone to—"

"To tell you that you're acting like a fucking halfwit," he said. The staircase had stopped moving; neither of them took a step.

"Something like that. I can't believe what an idiot I'll be—"

"Idiot you'll _be_? It's _now _that you're being a complete idiot, Granger," said Draco. She looked baffled, which was more encouraging than the anger he'd expected. "The first time you told Weasley's sister about the Skeeter article, you mentioned my name."

Still nonplussed, Granger attempted to splutter out a response. "Well, yes, a rumour about a basilisk, a comment on the Ministry—"

"I said I liked it. What you're doing at the Ministry." His tone was flat; this was fact. There was still a disconnect between the Draco who existed now and the Draco he would become, a cavernous darkness that emitted the same sense of hopelessness as a Dementor's cold, gaping mouth. He knew the gulf was surmountable, that he would cross it, but for now, it was all he could do to accept the truths of his future. Granger had helped elves and merpeople and all sorts of other creatures he'd admittedly treated as less than people, almost less than sentient. He'd hated the way his father had acted toward Dobby, but he'd never done anything to stop him, never considered slipping a shirt into one of the cooking pots or sliding a sock into the corner of the broom cupboard where the elf had slept.

Another difference deepening the cavern between his current and new self, another change to undertake.

"Well?" he prompted Granger, who'd been silent for a few moments.

"You did, but—"

"I hardly think I would have commended your political undertakings if I didn't truly believe in them," he said. It was meant to be an objective statement but fringed on a compliment. He should say something to balance it out; her hair was always an easy target. Then he noticed that Granger's face was wet. "You must be bloody joking, not ag—"

"Well, I'm sorry that I'm showing _emotion_," she snapped, swiping away a tear. "Not all of us are lacking the full functions of our amygdala—"

"That's your fucking insult? I'm _lacking the full functions of my amyg_—"

"What, not up to par with Crabbe and Goyle's hilarious witticisms?" Granger rolled her eyes. "You are unbelievable, one second I'm half-convinced you're trying to do something nice, and the next—"

"Haven't you caught on yet, Granger? This is what I do, what _we _do. Take turns pissing the other off, take turns being relatively cordial, then start the whole thing ov—"

"Well, it's exhausting!" she said. "I'm trying not to push you because things have been better—"

"Better?" he repeated. "We haven't spoken since that morning in the library!" Not that he hadn't thought about her every day, every hour…not every minute, perhaps, but that wasn't so far off. "Unless you consider mutual avoidance better—"

"No! I mean—" She looked startled by the quickness of her own reaction.

"Granger, you don't — you don't _fancy_ me—"

"Oh shut up, of course not! You don't need to flatter yourself just because Pansy's not here to do it for you," said Granger hotly, her hand clenching the rail as the staircase lurched backward, apparently deciding that its two occupants would not be disembarking any time soon. No longer amused by the possibility that Granger was feeling something toward him besides enmity, Draco's palms began to sweat.

"Good," he said. "That's a relief, I was worried you'd started to entertain some ridiculous ideas." Even as he rejected the possibility, he imagined grabbing hold of the railing on either side of her, trapping her in his arms, and kissing her again.

Would this sodding staircase ever stop moving again? He needed to get off; _he_ was the one entertaining ridiculous ideas.

"You're not exactly my type," Granger said, crossing her arms.

"You mean because I'm lacking the scent of cologne du ordure? I hear that one's popular among the red-haired and impoverished—"

"God, you're such a dickhead! I can't believe I wanted to hear your opinions—"

"Well, you can hear them now — this staircase seems to want us to work out this little quarrel," said Draco, miffed that he'd left his wand in his bedroom. He could have stopped the staircase's motion with magic, but as it was, he was stuck with Granger until the stairs tired themselves out. "First off, stop feeling sorry for yourself, it's pitiful."

Granger blanched. "I am _not _feeling—"

"Don't deny it, that's even worse," he said, raising his voice to talk over her. "Second, tell me how you feel about what you've supposedly accomplished — the rights for the elves and werewolves and all that."

"What, am I allowed to speak now?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "How considerate of you to let m—"

"Give it a REST, Granger!" yelled Draco. "For fuck's sake, just answer the que—"

"FINE! I THINK IT'S INCREDIBLE, OKAY?" Her eyes were wild again, but she looked more herself than she had all evening. "It's more than I ever could have dreamed of accomplishing, and I'm disgusted that people are actively fighting against it! I'm proud of what I'm going to do, and I'm terrified by the New Order business and the possibility that everything's going to be taken away, that all of those creatures' rights are going to be taken away!" Her chest heaved up and down, and her hand had left the railing as she spoke, her unrestrained gesticulations requiring both hands. "Are you HAPPY now?"

"It doesn't much matter, does it?" Draco asked. "You are. You believe in this, so stop acting like you've made a huge mistake, that you're somehow at fault here."

"But I—"

"The world is full of ignorant, arrogant shits, Granger, and I'm speaking from first-hand experience," he said, shrugging. "Knowing you, you'll be able to pester these New Order freaks into disbanding of their own volition."

She tore her eyes from his, turning to face the line of portraits on the wall closest to their staircase, which was mercifully slowing down. The stairs fell into place on the seventh floor with a resounding boom, and Draco waited for Granger to move. He didn't want to be the first back to the room.

"Granger?"

"That was — you really helped me." Now that she'd turned back toward him, Draco almost wished she'd kept looking at the portrait of Bowman Wright and the Snitch he'd invented, which whizzed round his head like a golden halo.

Granger was grateful; he could see it in her face. She looked like she'd just strolled into a sunny meadow after a long, cold winter, relieved and cautiously pleased, as if another dusting of snow might fall from the sky if she let herself fully enjoy the warmth. Maybe validated too, though he couldn't imagine what about. And something else. Something that put him on edge. It called to the same instincts inside of him that'd caused him to chase her out of the Room of Requirement.

"Draco—"

And he was kissing her again, locking her body into place with his arms like he'd imagined earlier, but they were loose enough that she could extract herself and run up the stairs, back to the room where her friends sat waiting. They were a question.

She answered by putting one hand around his neck and the other in his hair.

"Granger…" He choked out, catching a breath. Her mouth tasted sweet; he would have sworn she'd eaten strawberries recently. He moved his hands from the railing and ran them down her backside, settling on her bum, then nipped at her bottom lip, the one she was always gnawing. She slid her tongue into his mouth, letting let out a soft moan and tightening her grip on his neck.

Too close, he was getting too close. This was wrong and loathsome and unnatural—

_But reaching out had been instinctive. Touching her was easy, so easy he hadn't had to think about it._

One of his hands moved up to cup her breast, and she grabbed his hips, pulling him flush against her. They were being stupid, so stupid, anyone could leave the room and see — Potter and the Weasel King going out for a romantic midnight stroll perhaps. He had to stop, had to remember who she was…

Even as he internally berated himself, he was getting hard, his dick pressing against her thigh.

"Fuck," he whispered, pulling away from her and backing into the railing on the other side of the staircase. "That shouldn't've — I don't know why I — it was a mistake. You're the only option here; I don't count the Weasley girl," Draco said, each excuse heavy on his tongue. Her expression was one of cold indifference, yet he kept going, digging himself deeper. "This would never happen out" — he gestured vaguely toward the rest of the castle — "there, in real life. I figured you'd be easy, and I was right."

At the last statement, Granger looked like he'd slapped her.

"I can argue with you about almost anything," she said quietly, backing up and starting to ascend the stairs, "but I'm not going to fight with you about this. I deserve better than being treated like some insentient doll you can play with when you get bored." Her eyes were glassy; she shook her head and began climbing more quickly, only looking back when she'd reached the top of the staircase. She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to change her mind, and she sped the rest of the way back to the Room of Requirement. Something twisted in his gut.

He didn't want to get used to watching her walk away from him.

.

~#~

.

_October 31, 2017, 8:13 AM_

Draco could tell she'd been waiting for him to wake up by her posture. Her back was ramrod straight with expectation; normally, she'd have been slumped over, curled like a comma on the couch with a book in her lap.

It was odd, the myriad of little things he was picking up on when it came to Granger.

He cleared his throat, and she jumped a little before rising off of the sofa and facing him. Her hair was a bird's nest; he didn't think he'd have noticed if she'd hidden a couple of tawny bramblings in the knots. Had he expected to see her this morning? Some underlying part of him, a part he didn't care to acknowledge, must have _wanted_ to; otherwise he'd still be in bed. He knew that she arose at 8 o'clock every day, and when he'd inspected the face of his watch this morning, it had read 8:03. He was out of his room ten minutes later, after slipping into his clothes and brushing his teeth.

He wondered if he was supposed to be the first to speak, if she expected an apology or at the very least, a pleasant "good morning." The former was unlikely; he could feel his pride, cagey and wounded, limping around in his brain like an overgrown cat. To have kissed Granger once could be passed off as a moment of weakness, a simple lapse in judgment, but twice…

"Morning, Malfoy."

"We're back to Malfoy then, are we?" The question came out accusatory, petulant. He didn't like it though – her _Malfoy _sounded harsher than he remembered, bleak and impersonal like the word carried with it an icy zephyr_. _Growing into her _Draco_ had been like growing into a new jumper, one warmer and softer than any he'd owned before.

She rounded the couch and bypassed him, moving toward the door. "I think it's best. Wouldn't want you to get any ideas about my harbouring secret feelings for you, now would we?"

"Suppose not," he muttered, inexplicably unhappy with the decision.

"Take a walk with me," said Granger. He wasn't sure whether it was an order or suggestion, but he nodded nonetheless, the image of her ascending the staircase last night still fresh, the miserable ache in his belly as she'd left him even fresher.

.

~#~

.

_8:22 AM_

The leaves under her feet were so dead that they couldn't muster even the smallest crunch. The walk across the grounds had yet to be pierced by dialogue, and nature seemed to be doing its best to maintain the silence. No birds could be heard chirping and chattering, no breeze rustled the few leaves left on the trees, and students were either eating breakfast in the Great Hall or still in bed, where they'd have a wrestling match with their blankets before making a mad dash for their first class.

Hermione appreciated the quiet at first, and Draco — she could still call him by his first name in her head, she decided — looked lost in his own thoughts. She'd stayed up half the night thinking about their second kiss, how much she'd wanted it to happen, how fervently she'd welcomed it. She suspected that his flimsy, paper-thin excuses afterward were just that, crumpled up and tossed aside as soon as they formed, and he was far more concerned with convincing himself of his indifference than he was with convincing her. He needed to pretend that he wasn't attracted to her, a Muggle-born Gryffindor who was best friends with the boy who stood the best chance of defeating Voldemort, who would go down fighting beside him if it came to that. She understood.

Still, she'd let a couple of the insults puncture her defences; empathy didn't render her impervious to his slights. He was good with words, Draco. He knew how to manipulate them, coat them in venom, and arrange them into weapons that could dig under your skin, the poison spreading for hours. She was tired of wearing defensive armour around him, and she'd thought that leaving her shield at the door would be safe. Wrong, so wrong.

The rose of acceptance may have bloomed, but his thorns were as prickly as ever.

What had she said last night? That she'd needed him…

_Need_ — such a strong word. She was less careful with her diction than Draco, but she wasn't sure she would be able to change that linguistic choice with any conviction or truthfulness. She'd grown reliant on him, careless and stupid though it was, and it was the reason she'd asked him to accompany her on a walk this morning.

Hermione snuck a glance to her right and found that the Slytherin was already looking at her. He rolled his eyes.

"You know, as much as I'm enjoying these views of the grounds I've been walking around for six bloody years—"

"Right, I'll get to the point," she said, turning in the direction of the Quidditch pitch and considering what she'd most like to discuss. "I asked you t—"

"Asked?" He raised an eyebrow. "Would've bossed me right out the door, I'd imagine—"

"Oh, shut up. You were willing enough." To her surprise, Draco didn't argue. "I wanted to go over what I overheard last night a little more," she continued, "about the New Order and—"

"To what end?" Draco asked.

She stopped walking. "What do you mean?"

"To what end – what do you think it will accomplish?" He'd stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets as they'd walked and took them out now, blowing white puffs of air into his fists between questions. "Even if you figure out that the Dark Lord has risen again and is building up an army of sodding blue pixies and hinkypuffs, what good do you suppose that will do for a load of people that can't see or hear us?"

"It's hinkypunks," she said automatically, "but to answer your question, I thought th—"

"And another thing," Draco cut in, rubbing his chin, "don't you find it odd that you and Potter's future selves didn't acknowledge your presence? No knowing glances in your direction, no note slipped inconspicuously onto the floor. Unless, of course, they — well, _you_ — think torture via an alternate timeline counts as character building."

God, that hadn't occurred to her, but it seemed quite obvious an oversight now that Draco had brought it up.

"It _is_ quite bizarre now that I think about it," she said. Hermione resumed walking; movement always helped her work out her thoughts more efficiently. "I can't think of a reason why we wouldn't say or do anything."

Draco pulled out his wand and cast a warming charm to counter the October air, which seemed to be getting chillier rather than warmer. The suggestion of sun — hazy, soft, and white behind the clouds — had all but disappeared in a heavy mass of gray. "You and the Poofter Pair are undoubtedly masochists when it comes to heroism," he said, "but this seems unusual for your style. Too much psychological suffering, not enough innocent victims or well-publicized stints in the hospital wing."

He was right. She couldn't think of a logical reason for her and Harry's future selves to remain silent. They must've escaped this time frame at some point, so why not find a way to reveal the answer when the opportunity arose? Why not leave a note, as Draco had suggested, or find a way to slip their method of escape into conversation?

"Maybe they — I mean Harry and me — will find a way to tell us at Hogsmeade," said Hermione, her attempt at optimism unconvincing to her own ears. "There's going to be a meeting soon, the old Order of the Phoenix members, I think."

"Maybe," said Draco dully.

He sounded as confident she felt.

* * *

A/N: Whaaaaaat an update in less than a week?! Yeah, I'm surprised too...

Hope you liked the chapter — I know everyone is anxiously awaiting the ~big reveal~ and I promise it's coming! Just have to unleash one other trick up my sleeve beforehand. *Cue winking emoji*

As always, thanks for reading, and please drop a review! I love hearing everyone's thoughts!


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